


Deadlocked

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Episode Related, Fic, Fix-It, Gen, Heist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 21:31:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm staging a coup," said Neal. "I'm taking my life back." </p><p>(A re-write of episode 4.10: more fighting, less Sam, no Java Jive.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-write of 4.10, ie, more or less what I felt needed to happen after the end of 4.09. 
> 
> Note that I've aimed for episode-appropriate plotting and logic, and although this is theoretically the mid-season finale, there are no explosions and Neal doesn't jump off anything. Also, there are three acts instead of five, because I could. Some canon dialogue has been re-purposed.
> 
> The ending is a bit Dun dun DUNNNNNN, as is appropriate for the mid-season cliffhanger. This doesn't mean I'm going to write a sequel. (No sequels! Please don't ask! That's what we have the show for!)
> 
> A million squillion thanks to cyphomandra, gnomi and mergatrude for beta (you guys are awesome!!). Additional thanks to everyone whose comments and discussion on [my episode recaps](http://china-shop.dreamwidth.org/84807.html#cutid3) helped shape my views about this conflict between Peter and Neal, and what needed to happen to resolve it.
> 
> Cover art by the wonderful teaotter. ([You can leave feedback for the cover here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/596846))

 

>   
> _"I may be a ward of the state, and I will do my job for the FBI. But as far as my personal life goes, we are done. We're done!"_  
>  \-- Neal, episode 4.09

 

### 1.

Neal walked all the way home from Midtown. By the time he arrived, with bruises from the boxing match stiffening his stride and his sweat-damp trackpants chafing his thighs, it was dusk, and June's house was lit up, warm and welcoming like a Christmas card. Neal was too tightly wound to appreciate it. All that mattered was shutting Peter out, as efficiently and effectively as possible. Taking back as much of his life as he could. 

June was in the parlor with Cindy, poring over some travel guides. Neal was in no state to enter the elegant room so he hovered in the doorway. June came over as soon as she saw him. "Darling, what happened? Do you need a doctor?"

"No, I'm—" Neal broke off and worked hard to modulate both his voice and his temper. "I'm sorry to interrupt your evening. I need a favor."

"Anything," said June. She laid her hand delicately on his arm and steered him into the hallway. "Just say the word."

"I'd like Tia and Beatrice to refuse the FBI entry," said Neal. "Especially Peter."

"Oh." June drew back and looked at him searchingly. "My dear, I'm afraid my agreement with the Bureau requires me to allow them in at any time." 

It was like being shoved against the ropes again. Neal's fists clenched involuntarily.

"They're to be given full access to your living quarters," June continued. "I could speak with a lawyer about it, but—"

"No, never mind." Too late, Neal heard the bitterness in his own voice. He snapped his mouth shut until he had better control and drew back slightly, feeling ashamed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you in a difficult position."

"Nonsense," said June. "I'm sure we can think of something. At the very least, I can instruct the staff to be less congenial." Her expression was all sympathy. "Would that help?"

"Thank you, June. Really." Neal could at least take petty satisfaction in ranging his pieces against Peter's next play. "I should go and clean up. Is Mozzie here?"

"He arrived about twenty minutes ago," said June. "I believe he's upstairs." She studied him a minute longer. "Do let me know if you need a doctor. Or anyone else."

Neal suspected she was hinting he might want legal advice himself, but Neal had Mozzie for that. "I'll be all right. Please give my apologies to Cindy for interrupting."

  


* * *

 

Mozzie was on the couch with a large glass of red wine and a paperback when Neal walked in. He dropped the book immediately and stood up. "You're okay. Good. That's good. Did the Suit find you?" 

"He found me," said Neal, grimly, his grievances rising up again. "Moz, if you go to Peter about me again—for any reason—we're through for good."

"Neal, what happened?"

"Sam's gone," said Neal. "Whoever was after him, they found him because of Peter." He pulled off his sweatshirt and threw it in the direction of the laundry hamper. "I'm staging a coup. I'm taking my life back."

"Okay." A gleam appeared in Mozzie's eye. "So, where do we hit first?"

Neal shook his head. "Not like that. But I'm going to need a new credit card, a new phone and a ready supply of cash."

"And?" 

Mozzie seemed to be waiting for something, God only knew what. Neal grabbed a fresh towel and headed for the shower, in no mood to play guessing games. When he came back ten minutes later, clean, robed, and feeling marginally better, in body if not in spirit, Moz had relocated to the table and was apparently on his second or third glass. "And?" he said, as if the conversation had suffered no interruptions.

Neal poured his own glass and peered into the fridge in search of food. There was leftover Chinese takeout, and he put some in the microwave. He could feel Mozzie's gaze on him. "And what?"

"What's your end game?" Mozzie leaned forward. "You want to run?"

Neal shook his head. The idea hadn't even occurred to him, that was how brainwashed he'd become. He rejected it now, out of hand. "And go where? No, I stay, I fulfill my half of the contract, and I wait out the rest of my parole."

"Sounds festive," said Mozzie, his remark muffled by his glass. He drank deeply and flicked his thumb over the unread pages of his book. "You do realize that the times the Suit has treated you with the most leniency were when he considered you friends. If you want to find Sam—"

"I'm going to find Sam," said Neal. "I have to."

"—then your best course might be to con Peter into relaxing his guard." Mozzie held up his hands at Neal's glare. "I'm just saying."

"We're way past that," said Neal, and the truth of his words settled like lead in his stomach. He spooned the takeout into a bowl and poked at it gingerly, then carried it to the table mostly for appearance's sake. The laptop was buried under that morning's Times and the DVD of _When We Were Kings_ that Jones had lent him. Neal extracted it and opened his email program.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm reaching out to Sam," said Neal. "The only way I know how."

 

 

### 2.

Peter arrived home tired and sore. They'd taken down Dunham, another W for Burke and Caffrey. Almost more of a triumph, they'd both survived the boxing match unscathed, but Neal's storming off from Sam's apartment troubled Peter. That had only happened twice before. The first time, Neal had barely escaped a beating outside a bar in the line of duty and Peter had been more focused on the case than Neal's well-being, something Peter later acknowledged and apologized for; the second time was when Peter accused Neal of taking the art from the U-boat. That second time had heralded months of frustration, mistrust and lies, but they'd gotten past that; they were good now. Their working relationship was better than ever before. Peter was sure Neal wouldn't throw it away for this Sam character, whoever he was. 

El was working on a presentation for a new client, but she looked up when he came in. "How'd it go? Did you float like a butterfly, sting like a bee?"

"Something like that," said Peter, and he told her everything about the case and the fight with Neal. "He blamed me for Ellen's death."

"He's hurting." El came over and put a comforting hand on his chest. "We all say things we don't mean when we're hurting."

"You're right." Peter took her into his arms and felt better, his worry replaced with sympathy for Neal's loss. "He just needs some time to cool off. We'll find Sam again, and everything will be all right."

"Yes, it will," said El, reaching up to kiss him. "Especially if I wow this new client."

"Your white whale?" Peter followed her back to the table and admired the slick, professional-looking presentation she was putting together on her laptop. 

"She really is," said El. "Forget Neal. If I hook this client, _you'll_ be the one retiring to a tropical island."

"If anyone can do it, you can," said Peter. He dropped another kiss on the top of her head and went to investigate the possibilities for dinner, reassured by the reference to Cape Verde. Neal had given up his island paradise and a promising romance with yet another beautiful brunette to come back to New York; he wouldn't give up their partnership over a setback like Sam's disappearance. His emotions had been running high from the boxing, but it would blow over in a day or two, just like that fuss with Alex.

 

* * *

 

Neal was already at work when Peter arrived the next morning, and there was something different about his desk. 

"You're in early." Peter stopped, trying to put his finger on the change. The bust of Socrates was gone, along with all the other personal flourishes—the miniature trebuchet, the origami, the quote-of-the-day calendar. "No more Socrates?"

"I'm here to work," said Neal flatly, without looking up from the file on his desk.

"Okay. Nine o'clock, conference room." Peter backed off and went to get himself a cup of coffee. If he pushed, Neal would dig his heels in, and Peter didn't want their positions to become entrenched. He'd tread lightly, and once the others were around, it would help smooth things over. In the meantime, the important thing was not to take Neal's aloofness personally. Like El said, he was grieving for Ellen and worried about Sam. Any hostility between the two of them was just transference.

Peter took his coffee up to the mezzanine, only to be intercepted by Hughes. "Peter, I've received a request from Walt Furlong. He's running this year's Best Practices Conference, and he wants you and Caffrey to front a panel on the handler/CI relationship. I don't have to tell you what a coup this is."

Peter swore internally and pasted on a confident smile. "Yeah. That is good news."

"Your clearance rate has attracted some attention, as you know." Hughes looked slightly less grouchy than usual. "Put on a show. Do us proud. It can only help your position."

"When's the conference this year?" asked Peter as casually as he could, and when Hughes gave the date, a good two weeks away, Peter's misgivings subsided and he nodded confidently. "Fine. I'll book it into our schedule." There was no way Neal could spin this quarrel out for two weeks. 

An hour later, during the team briefing, Peter wasn't so sure. Neal responded readily to Diana and Jones when they addressed him, but he wasn't teasing anyone, wasn't boasting or leading the conversation, and when he looked at Peter, his face was a mask. Peter suppressed a bolt of irritation and addressed the room, "So how do we catch this guy?"

Diana made a face. "He's covered his tracks. We've got samples of the forgeries, but there's nothing to link them to Todman. Nothing conclusive, anyway."

"He's slick," agreed Jones. "All the transactions are carried out via third parties."

"All the same, we'll keep surveillance on him." Peter pressed his lips together. "Neal?"

Neal looked up, blinked once. "You could talk to Vera Humboldt," he said. "Get her to flip."

It was ridiculous to read insolence into a blink, but the "you" was undeniable. Neal was approaching this like a team sport, feds against criminals, and he clearly felt that the agents in the room were on the opposing side. Diana knew it too—that was evident in her expression. Jones was aware of the tension in the air but hadn't yet discerned its cause, probably because he didn't know about Sam.

"Humboldt supplied the printing facilities for the forgeries," said Jones, nodding. "If she had prior knowledge about the scam, we have leverage."

"All right." Peter closed the file and took a split second to decide how to respond. He was in no mood to woo Neal into being reasonable. Peter hadn't done anything wrong in investigating Sam, he'd been acting in Neal's best interest, and when Neal was thinking clearly he'd recognize that for himself. In the meantime, if he wanted space, let him have space. "Diana, you and I will visit Ms. Humboldt. Jones, you and Caffrey are in the van."

"Fun," said Jones dryly. 

Neal said nothing. He grabbed his blank legal pad and his coffee mug and left, not quite storming out, but not bothering to pretend good cheer either. Peter exchanged glances with Diana, who rolled her eyes.

"What did I miss?" asked Jones, looking from Peter to Diana and back. "Is this about the boxing match yesterday?"

"It's nothing. He'll get over it." Peter refused to make the rest of the team pander to Neal's surliness. "Make sure he pulls his weight in the van."

Jones nodded and followed after Neal with an air of dutiful determination. Diana raised her eyebrows at Peter. "What happened?"

"Sam's disappeared." Peter told her the rest—the tossed hotel room, Neal's accusations. 

Her initial response was practical. Peter had a policy that all reports be peer reviewed before they were submitted, to make sure the US Attorney's Office was equipped with the full picture. Diana had been the one to check Peter's reports on Neal's escape to the island, and she knew he hadn't included Ellen's name out of deference to her WITSEC status. She tilted her head and drummed her pen against the palm of her hand. "It was Collins, wasn't it? He put Ellen's name in the report."

"I don't know," said Peter, trying to be fair, although he suspected she was right. Collins was far more focused on the bottom line than on protecting the well-being of bystanders and witnesses. He wouldn't have thought twice about listing Ellen as uncooperative. He'd probably implied she'd aided Neal's escape. "We'll look into it. But you know, even if her name was mentioned, that doesn't mean she was deliberately targeted by someone in the Bureau. There are a dozen ways her killer could have found her."

Diana nodded. "You'd think, after everything you've done for Caffrey, he could at least give you the benefit of the doubt."

"You would think that." Peter looked through the glass wall at Neal, standing passively by Jones' desk, waiting to leave for the van. He was like a ghost, like he didn't belong here anymore. That brought back memories of the period after Kate's death, when Neal, newly released from prison for the second time, had held himself apart from the team and approached the work with a brittle ironic air. And it was partly because of that difficult time and what had come after, with Fowler and the gun, that Peter needed to do something soon to make it right and draw Neal back into the fold. But Neal was still in turmoil; he wouldn't welcome any overtures yet. So Peter gave his attention back to Diana and changed the subject to the current case, Todman and his multi-million-dollar forgery scam, and the two of them went to interview Humboldt at her printing studio in Harlem.

Humboldt was a tough, sturdy woman in her fifties, with a mostly legitimate business. Peter was pretty sure she hadn't known Todman's business plan when she'd rented him her studio, but she knew now, and sometimes the pursuit of justice had unfortunate side-effects for bystanders. This was one of those times. "We need you to testify," Diana told her.

"No," said Humboldt, shaking her head. "No, do you know what he'd do to me? I ain't giving up everything I worked for just because that creep decided I had a better facility than Miyamoto down on 95th. Anyway, you don't need me. Just watch him." She said it with an air of significance that made the hairs on the back of Peter's neck stand up.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "What do you know?"

"I heard one of his guys on the phone yesterday, when he came to collect the last of his ink supplies. Todman's going to strike out at Rueben McKinley."

"Rueben McKinley, the King of Queens?" said Diana.

"They're rivals," said Peter. "What's Todman planning?"

"I don't know, but his guy said McKinley was following him around in a laundry truck or a utility truck or something and that he wasn't going to stand for it. That's all I heard. If you catch that on tape, you don't need me, huh?"

Peter went cold. "That could mean Todman believes the surveillance van is McKinley's men." He stared at Humboldt, willing her to have answers. "Think very carefully. Did he say what he meant by 'strike out'? What's he going to do?"

She shook her head. "That's all I heard."

Diana was already on the phone. "Jones, evacuate the van. Security's been compromised. Get out of there now! We're on our way."

 

 

### 3.

Neal sat with headphones over both ears, eyes fixed on the monitor, torn between relief and anger at the effective demotion. Behind him, Jones was eating something wholesome and malodorous, and Neal screwed up his nose and focused on other things, although the van offered few distractions. This was how it was going to be from now on, reduced to tedious stakeouts and offering suggestions in meetings, the others saving the day and taking the credit while he stayed in the background. 

Well, why should he care? He'd never truly been part of the team anyway: they never let him forget his CI status, they teased him about his crimes, the anklet and his ability to deceive—the latter as if it were a character flaw rather than an asset that had proven itself valuable time and again. Screw them. It was better this way. Let Diana take over as Peter's partner and see how she liked the clumsy paternalism and bad puns. Neal would do his job, nine to five, and that would be that. 

He shifted in his seat. One of the coasters was loose, causing the chair to list slightly, and it was making his back ache. He was treading a fine line, after his outburst yesterday, he reminded himself. He had to be cooperative, civil and obedient and nurse his betrayal in private. He had no intention of going back to prison; he'd make the empty shell of his arrangement with Peter work if it killed him, so if one of them was going to snap now, it had to be Peter. And that would never happen.

Behind him, Jones' phone rang. "Diana?"

Neal scowled at the monitor, but a second later, Jones shook his shoulder. "Come on."

"What?" Neal lifted off one earpiece and glanced back without moving.

"Outside, now. We're evacuating."

" _What?_ " This was new. Neal sighed, reached for his coffee cup and followed Jones out of the van. Jones grabbed a couple of rolls of crime scene tape on the way out, and he and Neal set up a twenty-foot perimeter around the vehicle while Jones explained as much as he knew. 

Across the street, the blinds in Todman's third-floor office twitched.

"So you don't actually know there's a threat," said Neal. "You've just blown our cover, but it could be anything."

"You want to get back in the van?" Jones stopped and faced him square on.

Neal hesitated. If there was any truth behind Diana's report, the van could be a deathtrap. "No."

Jones smirked and finished setting up the cordon just as the bomb squad arrived. He briefed the head guy and came back to the edge of the tape to stand next to Neal, who'd rescued his now-tepid coffee from the roof of a nearby parked car and was drinking it. 

"So, Caffrey, what's going on?"

"I don't know what you mean."

Jones leveled a look at him, and Neal realized this wasn't just a ploy to make him talk it out. Jones didn't know about Sam or the fight or any of it. Out of the loop, like always. 

But if Neal filled him in, Jones would inevitably side with Peter, and there was no way to explain Neal's perspective without revealing the details of his attempts to gain Sam's confidence. So he was about to shrug it off when Peter's car screeched to a halt with its right front tire on the pavement, conveniently interrupting them. 

Peter jumped out, hurried over and grabbed Neal, squeezing his shoulder as if to reassure himself. "You guys are okay. Good, that's—good."

Neal flinched and stepped back involuntarily, and Peter's expression tightened, his lips thinning into a hurt, frustrated line, as if the possibility of a life-threatening situation should have magically resolved their differences, even though no one was hurt, and there probably hadn't been any real danger in the first place. 

Neal hated seeing that expression on Peter's face, even now, but he refused to let it get to him. His connection to the FBI had driven off Alex, maybe even made it impossible for Kate to tell him what was happening with Fowler and Adler before it was too late. And it had killed Ellen. Neal was legally committed to the anklet, but he would do everything he could to minimize any further damage to those around him. He had to, if Sam were ever going to trust him again. He had to. Whatever the cost.

Maybe, if Peter admitted fault and agreed to give Neal space, they could negotiate a middle ground and be partners again—not like they had been, invading every corner of the other's life, but work partners. But until that happened, Neal had to stand firm and establish some real boundaries. So he hung back and followed a few steps behind when Jones led Peter over to talk to the head of the bomb squad. 

The bomb squad chief was consulting with his team, but he turned as they approached, shook Peter's hand and introduced himself as Meyer.

"Find anything?" said Peter.

"Sure did." Meyer gestured toward the van. "A medium-sized explosive device taped to the bottom of the van. Plenty of bang. It would've blown the walls off the vehicle."

"And anyone inside," said Jones, his arms tightly folded.

"Yeah," said Peter grimly.

Meyer nodded. "You know, it was set to go off about five minutes from now. We got to it just in time."

Neal drank the last of his coffee, firmly suppressing the queasy churn in his stomach. If Neal hadn't suggested Peter talk to Humboldt, if Humboldt hadn't overheard Todman's phone conversation, if Peter hadn't made the connection between McKinley and the surveillance van— It was too close a call for Neal's liking, disaster averted by chance rather than design. And the confirmation of Peter's infallible gut instinct wasn't exactly welcome either. What if he were right about Sam too?

Neal didn't let himself think that. Instead he focused on the basic truth that once again his work for the Bureau was demonstrably riskier than his extracurricular activities. Not that Peter would ever admit as much.

"Did your guys find a signature?" Peter was asking Meyer.

"No hallmarks, nothing obvious. They're checking for prints and DNA evidence now."

"Okay, thanks. Let me know if you find anything." Peter pulled Jones aside. "Call SWAT. We're going to arrest Todman. Humboldt can connect him to the forgeries, and I'm not leaving him on the street after this."

"Where's Diana?" asked Jones.

"She's taking Humboldt downtown and putting her into a safe house as a cooperating witness." Peter ran his hand over his head, while Jones called for backup, then glanced over as if he'd forgotten Neal was there. "You can wait in the car."

"Wait in the car," repeated Neal flatly. 

Peter's expression was shuttered. "What, you want me to give you a firearm so you can storm in, both barrels blazing?"

"I'll wait in the car." Neal pressed his lips together and walked away before he said anything else, anything he'd regret. 

He'd only taken a few steps when Peter called after him, "No, you know what? We don't need you here. Go back to the office and dig into some of those cold cases."

"Got it," called Neal over his shoulder, without turning back. Message received loud and clear: Peter was pissed right back at him. The knowledge stoked the embers of Neal's wrath, causing it to flare up again, so instead of heading to the office, he decided to take an early lunch and go home to see if Sam had replied to his email.

During the cab ride to June's, the tracker weighed on his ankle, its presence heavier and more galling than it had been in years.

 

 

### 4.

Peter arrived home in a rotten mood, despite the successful arrest of Todman. Neal's sulking had cast a pall over the day. He'd forced the rest of the team to suffer through his moodiness, and moreover, he seemed completely oblivious to his brush with death at the hands of Todman's bomb-makers. He could have been blown to pieces, goddammit! The headache that had been gathering at the base of Peter's skull for the last three hours was throbbing in full force, along with his temper. 

El was on the couch with a book and a glass of wine—Jesus, it was nearly seven already—and from her expression when she saw him, his ill-humor was plain for all to see. Even Satchmo took one look at him and slunk upstairs.

Peter held up his hand to forestall El's inquiries and went to the kitchen to get Advil and a glass of water. He swallowed the painkillers and went out onto the patio to finish the water, looking up at the overcast sky so he wouldn't have to look at Mozzie's stupid Rai stone and breathing deeply. He was cranky, sure, but he would not take it out on El. But the arguments he'd been having in his head all day wouldn't stop circling, and he was still visualizing yelling at an imaginary Neal when El came out to find him.

"Hey, hon," she said, handing him a beer. "Tough day?"

"You could say that." Peter scowled at the Rai stone, so tense he jumped when El put her hand on his shoulder.

She gave him a sympathetic smile. "You want to talk about it? Is it Neal?"

"He's being impossible," said Peter. "The van nearly exploded today—literally—and he still wanted to charge unarmed into a firefight. He'll barely look at me. It's not like I did anything I haven't done a dozen times before, but all of a sudden he's treating me like I'm in league with the devil."

El sat down at the patio table and waited until he followed suit before she spoke. "So what's changed?"

"Nothing," said Peter. "It's Sam. I have to find Sam and convince him to work with me _and_ Neal."

"From what you said, that's not going to be easy." El frowned. "I really thought reaching out to Sam was a good idea."

"I thought Sam did, as well. I don't know how they caught on to him or who caught on to him, but he could've handled it better before skipping town." Peter shook his head. "And Neal saying I don't trust him—"

"Well, do you? Really?" El's expression turned wry.

"It's not about trust," said Peter. "It's not even about trying to change him. It's about basic safety precautions."

"Hon, asking Neal to accept safety precautions _is_ trying to change him. And if you don't back off, he's going to continue to think you don't trust him."

"You know, half the time I think he only says that to guilt-trip people into doing what he wants," said Peter, rubbing his temples. "I can't let him manipulate me into backing off this time. We still don't know what Sam wants. He could be dangerous." Peter shook his head. "Something bad is going to happen here, I can feel it."

"Well, there's a lot of different kinds of trust," said El reasonably. "Maybe you could tell him that. You trust him in a lot of ways."

"And in other ways, I know him too well to trust him." Peter took a long drink of beer. "At this point, even Mozzie's more forthcoming than Neal is."

"Given you're a federal agent and Mozzie is Mozzie, that's really saying something." El took his hand. "Talk to Neal. You guys have been through worse—you can work this out too. Just, you know, go easy."

Peter dragged his gaze from the stupid Rai stone, its edges glowing in the last of the daylight, and smiled at her, really looking at her for the first time since he got home. She looked serene, more refreshing than water and a damned sight more comforting than beer. "Don't go to sleep angry, huh?"

"Well, maybe give him a little more time to cool down." El leaned across and kissed him softly. "But you can fix this, Agent Burke."

"No, you're right. I'm losing control of the situation. I need to talk to him, the sooner, the better." Peter kissed her back and reached for his car keys.

But when he arrived at June's house, the maid tried to stop him from crossing the threshold. Confused, he looked past her and saw June coming down the staircase with her pug tucked under her arm. "June, what's going on? I need to see Neal."

She swept toward him. Her eyes were stern, her manner cool and regal. She gave a quiet aside to the maid, who retreated discreetly, and then June turned to Peter and said, "Neal would prefer you conduct your business with him elsewhere. You can call him if you need to talk."

So it wasn't a misunderstanding. They were actually trying to refuse Peter entry. He swallowed a curse and studied June, suddenly suspicious. "Is Sam here? Is that why Neal doesn't want me inside?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss Neal's affairs." June raised her chin, and Peter had to bite his tongue to keep from apologizing. She could be amazingly intimidating for someone of such polite carriage and compact stature.

But this was no time to be cowed. Peter pulled his badge from his pocket and flashed it at her. "I'm exercising my prerogative as Neal's handler to access and search his accommodations."

June regarded him haughtily. "I think that's an unbelievably foolish decision, under the circumstances, but if you insist."

Her pug whined, and she patted him and led the way upstairs, stomping hard enough up the last flight to make her footsteps echo off the walls. Apparently Neal must be warned of Peter's imminent arrival. His suspicions hardened.

Neal answered June's knock, and his face went blank when he saw Peter standing there. June didn't help matters by announcing, "Agent Burke insisted on exercising his right to access your rooms."

"Thanks, June." Neal's lips were a straight line. He was still in vest and tie, though he'd discarded the suit jacket, and as always he looked like he'd walked out of the pages of a fashion magazine.

Peter had left his own tie in the car, and he was aware of his crumpled state and the headache that still lingered. Faced with the icy elegance of the others, he felt at a distinct disadvantage and was relieved when Neal refused June's offer to sit in on the interview. "As you wish, my dear," she told Neal, and she left without another word.

Peter told himself it wasn't personal. It was no surprise that if sides were to be taken, June would take Neal's, and once this had blown over, she'd return to treating him with the amused familiarity he'd come to expect from her. Still, it was alarming how quickly and thoroughly Neal had arrayed his friends against Peter.

Peter walked past Neal into the apartment and scanned the room quickly to check they were alone. It seemed like decades since he'd last been here, goofing around during boxing practice, figuring out how to fake the fight. Since then, things had grown far too serious, and Peter couldn't help blaming Sam for that. If he was here now, perhaps they could resolve the matter once and for all—but there was no evidence of company, no sign of Sam or Mozzie. Just Neal, standing by the door, his hands in his pockets, thunder on his face. 

"What are you doing here, Peter? Checking up on me again?"

"Yeah," said Peter, determined to be the voice of calm reason. "Whatcha doing?"

"Why don't you check my anklet? Why don't you check my credit cards or my phone records?"

"That won't tell me who you're seeing." Peter looked around again. "Is Sam here?"

"No." One hard, implacable syllable, like a gunshot.

For the first time in a long time, Peter thought Neal might be lying outright and honestly couldn't tell if he was. Peter walked over to the window, gathering his thoughts and trying to find the right thing to say, the phrases that would dissolve the tension and put them back where they belonged, side by side on the same team, Burke and Caffrey. The sky was dark, the Chrysler Building lit up like a chandelier. Peter shook his head. "Listen, Neal, we need to talk."

"There is nothing to talk about."

"I know you're angry, but—"

"No," said Neal, with enough force that Peter turned to face him. He tried to interrupt, but Neal's words were coming thick and fast now. "We tried it your way, and it put Sam's life in danger. Now I'm doing it my way. Alone."

"Neal." Peter's heart ached. "You don't have to do this alone."

Neal glared at him. "I don't want you looking for Sam."

"I have to." Peter sighed. Neal was still standing by the door, still waiting for him to leave, and Peter wasn't going anywhere yet but he moved back there anyway, trying to make a connection. They were good at this. They could do this together. "Are you in contact with him?"

"Stay out of it, Peter," said Neal harshly. "It's none of your business."

That stung. "It's always going to be my business, as long as I'm responsible for you."

"You have no right," said Neal, as if he believed that. As if he could make it true just by wanting it enough.

"I do," said Peter. "As long as you're wearing that anklet, I am legally entitled to read your bank statements, keep you under surveillance, do whatever it takes to keep you safe." Neal almost snarled, and Peter held up his hands in a calming gesture, as if Neal were a wild animal, trapped and scared. He pushed his frustration aside and deliberately relaxed his posture and his voice. "What I don't have a right to is your friendship. That part is up to you."

"You want me to be friends with my jailor," said Neal.

Peter kept his hands open and visible, and lowered his voice even further—a con man's habit he'd picked up from Neal. "Like I said, your choice." Neal made a dismissive gesture, and Peter's anger welled, infusing his next words with unintended sarcasm. "But here's something to chew on: if you hadn't spent the last three years sneaking around—the music box, Fowler, the art from the U-boat, even that heist at the Hellerman last month—I might not be so goddamned paranoid about what trouble you're going to get yourself into next."

Neal jabbed a furious finger at him. "Oh, so this is all my fault. Of course!" His face contorted with anger. "We've been through a lot, Peter. I came back to New York for you, I willingly accepted the anklet because the commutation had fallen apart, I worked my ass off getting you back into White Collar when you were stuck in Evidence. I risked my life. I thought we were partners. But even now—even after all of that, you don't trust me."

That old chestnut again, Neal's constant refrain. He was so smart, how could he not get it? "I trust you about a lot of things," said Peter, trying to get through to him, but Neal's whole aspect screamed disbelief, and the stirring conviction abruptly drained from Peter, leaving him exhausted. "Trust isn't about big gestures, Neal. It's about day-to-day honesty. It's about being reliable, about being open. Trust has to be earned, and when it's been damaged, it takes a long time to heal."

"Yes," said Neal, pointedly. "Yes, it does."

"Fine." There was no point continuing this. June had been right, in her way, and so had El; Neal's armor of righteous indignation was impenetrable, and it had been stupid to try and reason with him while he was still fuming. "Well, at least we still agree on something."

It was a weak attempt at humor, and Neal didn't bother to acknowledge it as such. He held the door open, and Peter walked out into the empty hallway, kicking himself for blundering in so hastily and feeling far more bruised than he had after the boxing match the day before. It was too delicate, too important to handle with a headache. He'd proven that, and there was nothing to do now but go home and take tomorrow as it came.


	2. Chapter 2

### 5.

El was late. 

Mozzie paced the drafty loft of Friday, his third-favorite safe house. He had his phone in one hand and a glass of a challenging Gewürztraminer in the other. It was only one-thirty, too early for Syrah. He put on some calming opera and hummed along, trying to distract himself from the fact that this business of sneaking around behind Neal's back was considerably more fraught than usual. Technically, meeting with Mrs. Suit wasn't a breach of Neal's new Terms and Conditions of Friendship, but Mozzie couldn't be sure that Neal would draw the same distinction, not in his current mood and definitely not if he were the subject under discussion, which Moz strongly suspected would be the case. 

But Mozzie didn't have a choice. El had sent up a distress flare—well, a distress text—and he couldn't very well ignore it. Still, in the interests of keeping the peace, he'd decided to burn a safe house rather than risk Neal's finding out about the rendezvous. Better safe than sorry.

El arrived during the brindisi from Act 1 of _La Traviata_. She knocked on the open door and popped her head in the doorway. "Moz? Sorry I'm late. My presentation ran long and it took me ages to get a cab."

She looked tired and harried, but for now, Mozzie simply raised his glass. "Wine or tea?"

He fully expected her to say tea, as was her custom, but she made a beeline for the side table with its crystalware and helped herself to a healthy glass of Gewürz, gulping the first few mouthfuls in a way that provoked a raised eyebrow of consternation from Mozzie. She didn't seem to notice, but eventually came up for air when he turned the music down to a more appropriate background volume. She laid her raw silk jacket over the back of a chair and went to the window to assess the view. "This can't be Thursday."

"This is Friday," said Mozzie. "Serviceable, convenient and disposable."

El sent him an amused glance, though her smile was strained. "You're not sacrificing a safe house on my account, I hope. I won't tell anyone."

"I know." For a moment, Mozzie seriously contemplated keeping the place. Real estate transactions meant getting new fake IDs, and moving was an inconvenience. But he had rules, strictly adhered to for many years, and he'd established them for good reasons. He changed the subject. "What's the emergency?"

El sat on the low windowsill, her back against the sunlit glass, and screwed up her face. "You know about Peter and Neal's—"

"Estrangement?" Mozzie moved closer. "I'm aware."

"It's all my fault," El blurted, obviously upset. "I saw the second glass in the sink at Neal's apartment, and I told Peter, and it was Sam, and if I'd just kept my nose out of it, they wouldn't be like this." She covered her eyes for a moment. "I'm going to confess to Neal. It's the right thing to do, and if he knows it's my fault, maybe he and Peter will be able to sort it out before they lose everything they've—"

"It won't work," interrupted Mozzie, before she could talk herself into a catastrophic move. "If you tell him, you'll just get mired in the mess too. Neal's extraordinarily touchy at the moment."

El pressed her lips together. "He's not the only one. I've never seen Peter so—" She broke off. 

"Interesting times," said Mozzie, in a bid for understatement of the year.

El breathed a humorless laugh. "Give me boring any day." She sent Mozzie a pleading look. "You know Peter and me, we hate fighting. We're terrible at it. I have to— What can I do to fix it?"

"I don't know." Mozzie drank some wine as he considered. This could be Fate's way of providing him with a chance to deliver some home truths about the government's treatment of Neal. El was an adult, sensible and well-intentioned, and she'd been living in a miasma of institutional propaganda for far too long. 

He sat down in the nearest chair, and she sighed and moved to the couch.

"Listen, I've grudgingly come to respect the Suit despite his profession," Mozzie told her, "but even you have to admit he has some glaring blind spots."

"Such as?" El's gaze sharpened, but having got started, Mozzie was committed to seeing this through.

He waved his free hand, and said in a voice that, even to his own ears, was shrill with stating the obvious, "Uh, he thinks the FBI is trustworthy and can do no wrong?"

El all but rolled her eyes. "Moz, just because you're a counter-culture rebel, that doesn't mean the government's—"

"This isn't about me, El." Mozzie leaned forward to make his point. "This is about Fowler, Kramer and Collins, and all the mini-Suits they have at their command. Fowler was implicated in Kate's death. Kramer tried to coerce Neal into a lifetime of indentured servitude. And Collins—Collins shot him at point blank range. And did he receive official sanction for that? No. A commendation, more like."

El shook her head. "A few bad apples don't mean the whole barrel is rotten."

"All the bad apples seem to be worming in Neal's direction." Mozzie's glass was empty. He went to refill it, continuing as he went, "And that's not even starting on whoever leaked Ellen's whereabouts to her assassin. There's a good chance that information came out of the FBI."

"No."

Mozzie came back, bringing the bottle with him. "I should have known you wouldn't get it. You've been living with the Suit too long. More wine?"

But El was standing, her face stiff. "I should go."

Mozzie sighed and abandoned the reality lesson, appealing to her empathy instead. "Just look at it from Neal's point of view. Barring six weeks in paradise, he's been under constant surveillance for nearly seven years. He's lost Kate and Ellen, and he has a scar on his leg—a vivid reminder of a bullet that, frankly, could have killed him. And now Peter's refusing to let him meet with the one man who knew Ellen, the guy who might have answers about Neal's father. Does he even realize what he's asking Neal to walk away from?"

"Peter's doing his job," said El. "And you weren't exactly averse to investigating Sam yourself, a few weeks ago. Isn't that why you were in Alex's penthouse in the first place?"

"That was different," said Mozzie. "I was scouting for information. I wasn't using the full force of the Evil Empire to control Neal's behavior or restrict who he could associate with."

"As I understood it, you were trying to pin something on Sam so Neal would watch the tape with you, not him." There were angry sparks in El's eyes now. "I never thought you, of all people, would be prone to hypocrisy."

The hit struck home, but Mozzie refused to retaliate. The last thing they needed was another skirmish in the wider war. "Don't be like that, El. Come on, I gave you a Rai stone."

"I never asked for a Rai stone," snapped El. "I just wanted a friend who treated me like an equal, not I don't know, a brainwashed sheep. Obviously I was looking in the wrong place."

Ignoring Mozzie's protestations, she handed him her glass, gathered her things and flounced out, leaving him stunned. Mrs. Suit had lost her cool. He hadn't known she'd had it in her, and while a small voice in the back of his head was exclaiming in admiration—she had been magnificent, after all—his main concern was that everyone had lost their minds. 

Mozzie wasn't a devotee of the zodiacal arts, but given that the discord was spreading into the unlikeliest of places, he wouldn't be the least surprised to find that Mercury was in retrograde.

 

 

### 6.

El stomped around the kitchen feeling rotten. She was dog tired because Peter was sleeping badly, which meant she was sleeping badly; she'd been late for her presentation to the new client and had been off her game—she might even lose the account; Mozzie hadn't contradicted her when she'd said she was to blame for the discord between Peter and Neal, so it was probably true; she'd yelled at Mozzie for, basically, being himself; and having indulged in a large glass of wine on an empty stomach, she was topping that off with a mild but insistent, pre-dinner hangover.

It had not been her best day, nor her finest hour. She owed Mozzie an apology, and she needed to do some damage control with her client. First, though, she needed dinner. And ice cream. Ice cream would help her think. 

She was sitting at the breakfast island eating it straight out of the tub when Peter got home. He took one look, got himself a spoon and pulled up a stool. "Tough day?"

"Where do I begin?" She loaded up her spoon and handed him the rapidly emptying tub of Cherry Garcia. "I was going to make a salad, but this seemed easier. And more apt." But just having him near was making her feel better. "How about you? Any progress?"

She didn't have to clarify. They both knew where the other's thoughts were focused: the deadlock with Neal. Peter pressed his lips together and shook his head, and El reached across to loosen his tie. Unfortunately, the move meant she dripped ice cream on his suit pants. 

"Oh hell." She sighed. "That's exactly the kind of day I'm having." She moved to get up, to get a cloth, but he put his hand on her shoulder, pressing her back down, and went to clean up himself.

"The key to resolving all of this is to find Sam," said Peter, wetting a cloth at the sink. "Neal was mad when I screwed things up with him and Alex, but he got over it as soon as Alex forgave him. If I can get Sam to give Neal another chance, Neal won't care what I had to do to make it happen."

"Okay," said El, because doing something—even looking for the Incredible Vanishing Man who didn't want to be found—was a million times better than sitting around feeling miserable. "So how do we find Sam?"

Peter finished dabbing at his pants. He sat down again and picked up his spoon. "I know the email address Neal used to contact him the first time. I was thinking of getting Jones to work with the tech guys at the Bureau to trace where it's being accessed, but—"

"—but that means telling Jones and however many others about Sam," El finished for him.

"Yeah." Peter ate a mouthful of ice cream thoughtfully. "I don't suppose you could ask Mozzie if Neal's heard anything."

El knew her expression had fallen. "I don't think he's exactly in the mood to cooperate either," she said. "Moz and I had a fight today."

Peter frowned. "You don't get in fights."

"Must be something in the air," said El. She sighed. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Do you want me to defend your honor?" There was a hint of seriousness behind Peter's joke, and El took his hand, immeasurably grateful for both his loyalty and his humor.

"I think that would only confirm Mozzie's worst fears. We'll sort it out." She licked her spoon clean and applied her mind to the more abstract and therefore less awkward problem. "Sam's from DC, right? Do you know someone there who could make discreet inquiries, off the record?"

"Diana has a contact who's willing to dig around in the police records from 30 years ago." Peter rubbed the back of his neck wearily. "I suggested it to Neal, but he nixed the idea. That was when he'd already made contact."

"But before he told you," said El. "He's not easy, is he?"

Peter breathed a laugh. "That he is not. Luckily, I have a smart, loving wife to help me figure this stuff out."

"And now you have a plan." El winked at him. "You know, I think I need to walk off all that unplanned appetizer before I can face dinner. Want to take Satch for a walk and talk about nothing but inconsequential trivia like the weather?"

"Best offer I've had all day." Peter stood up, pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her, rocking her gently for a minute. She felt him press a kiss to the top of her head, and she smiled up at him, her earlier cares forgotten. So long as she had this, here, none of the rest of it really mattered.

 

 

### 7.

Diana came up behind Jones in the line at the coffee cart in Federal Plaza. He was a couple of people ahead, but she poked his arm, and he moved back to talk to her. His sunglasses obscured most of his expression, but what she could see wasn't especially congenial. 

"How's it going?" she asked. He grunted something noncommittal, which made her grimace sympathetically. "Too much time in the van?"

"More like too much time babysitting Caffrey," muttered Jones, half to himself. "I'm can't believe it's only been a week. It feels like a hundred years, and believe me, I'm envying Rip van Winkle. At least he got to sleep through it."

Diana's sympathy deepened. There was some consolation to knowing she wasn't suffering alone. "This is driving me nuts," she agreed. "Peter called me 'Neal' yesterday, but he won't admit he's moping."

"Caffrey's so polite, he could cut glass," said Jones. "I leave a trail of crushed eggshells every time I open my mouth. It's not exactly relaxing. What the hell started all this?" 

"Neal wants to run around behind Peter's back, and Peter's worried for his safety." She shrugged apologetically, wishing she could give him the inside scoop, but it wasn't her secret. "That's all I can tell you." They reached the front of the line, and Diana paid for both of their drinks. "And it's getting to all of us. I mean, can you believe Percy Lewis got away from us at that jewelry store bust yesterday? That little rat is so beneath us."

"And yet." Jones shook his head in shared despair, and once their drinks were ready, they moved aside to keep talking, despite the brisk wind. The chance to vent was too good to pass up. Jones drank a mouthful of coffee and said, "Greg Pilkington from Organized Crime told me he heard White Collar's winning streak had run out."

"Winning streak?" said Diana, offended. "Does he think we sit around all day, throwing dice and crossing our fingers?"

Jones looked gloomy. "The way things are going, that might be the better option."

"No." Diana put her free hand on her hip and gestured with her coffee. "I'm not watching everything we've worked for go down the toilet. We have to do something about this."

Jones looked sideways at her. "Like what?"

"We need a new case," said Diana. "An art heist or something. Something that forces them to work together. Then they'll have to sort it out, and we can get back to business as usual." She nodded, fueled with new determination. "Leave it to me."

Jones pulled his sunglasses down so he could look at her directly. "You want to stage an art heist?"

Diana rolled her eyes. "I've got a friend at NYPD," she said. "Might be able to steer something our way."

 

 

### 8.

"Art heist," said Peter, looking around the conference room till his gaze came to rest on Neal and turned sharp and interrogative. 

Neal sat very still, waiting for the meeting to be over. Normally he met these kinds of cases with enthusiasm, but today it was more like trepidation. An art heist meant he'd be working with Peter directly. No way they'd let him retire to the van for this one. And working with Peter meant keeping his guard up, holding himself in check so he didn't accidentally slip into old, comfortable patterns. It was exhausting.

Peter raised an eyebrow and continued, "And this time it's in our own backyard. There's a Hatcher missing from the Vivian Evans Gallery." He pointed the remote at the screen, and a murky landscape painting appeared. 

"That's less than a block from here." Diana sounded oddly satisfied.

"A Hatcher?" said Jones, blankly.

Neal couldn't resist filling him in. "W. Hatcher is an obscure American painter from the 1920s."

"He was better known for his forgeries," said Diana.

"Her forgeries," corrected Neal. "Little known fact, Hatcher was a woman. She kept a low profile." The rest of the team was staring at him, and he remembered with a jolt that he wasn't supposed to be enjoying this. He sat back in his seat and picked up his pen. "Not that that has any bearing on the current case."

Peter cleared his throat and indicated the painting on the display. "Well, this is one of her originals. They burned out the security system to gain access to an entire gallery full of art, and they only took this." He turned off the screen, and for a long second the only sounds were the hum of the air conditioning and some voices from the outer office. Then he spoke. "Diana and Jones, you continue surveillance on Silberstein. Neal and I will go talk to the gallery."

 

* * *

 

On the way to the gallery, Neal kept his hands in his pockets and his gaze straight ahead while Peter filled him in on the other details of the case. "The security system is completely destroyed. The gallery's worried the thieves will come back for more, so they've employed guards until the alarm company can install a new setup."

"No one's coming back," said Neal, reluctant to be drawn into the discussion but unable to stand such irrational logic. "If the thief wanted more, they'd have taken it at the time. It makes no sense to return to the scene of the crime once your target's been alerted."

Peter stopped in his tracks and looked at Neal. "Did you do it?"

"The Hatcher's worth a few thousand on the black market, at most," said Neal, stifling his kneejerk annoyance at the accusation. This was routine for them; of course Peter suspected him. "Why would I take it?"

"To prove you can," said Peter. "To piss me off."

"Well, I didn't." 

"Do you know who did?"

At least Peter wasn't doubting his outright denial. Neal took off his hat, dusted the brim and replaced it. "I might."

Peter's eyebrows rose eloquently.

"Rory Yiakmis," said Neal. "Local kid, small time. I haven't seen him since I went to prison, but he used to have a scorched earth policy when it came to alarm systems."

Peter nodded. "So, someone you know stole a painting from a gallery within a stone's throw of Federal Plaza, which just ended up on our ticket, and you had nothing to do with it."

Put that like, it sounded pretty damning. Still, Peter looked more thoughtful than severe, and Neal was actually innocent this time. 

"Coincidences do happen, Peter," he pointed out.

"Hmm." Peter stopped outside the gallery door. "We're working together on this one."

"Obviously."

"Think you can remember how that goes?" Peter bent closer and lowered his voice. "The people in that gallery are expecting a team to solve their crime, and because you're such a damned good con man, a team is exactly what we're going to give them."

Neal took a deep breath and forced a convincing smile. It actually felt pretty good, after a long week of plastic neutrality, and it made Peter's shoulders relax a good couple of inches.

"That's the Neal Caffrey I know and love," he said, fond despite knowing full well the smile was manufactured to order. "Let's go."

They pushed through the doors and found the manager waiting for them.

 

 

### 9.

Diana was sending email and procrastinating about writing up her report on yesterday's failed jewelry store bust when Elizabeth Burke walked into the office carrying a brown paper bag. Elizabeth stopped when she saw Peter's office was empty, and catching Diana's eye, came over to talk to her instead. "Diana, Peter made his lunch and then left it on the kitchen counter. He's been a bit preoccupied lately."

"Tell me about it," said Diana involuntarily. She made an apologetic face. "Sorry."

"No, I understand," said Elizabeth meaningfully. "It's a difficult time. Anyway, I was passing by so I thought I'd bring it in. It's devilled ham sandwiches—no one else is going to eat them, not even Satchmo. Is Peter around?"

"He's out on a case with Neal," said Diana. She tried to say it casually, but couldn't quite mask how pleased she was by this development. "Art heist."

"Really?" Elizabeth beamed. "They're working together? You know, that's the best news I've had in weeks. I was beginning to think Neal would never back down. Peter's been like a tyrannosaurus with a sore head, and I couldn't help thinking that if only Neal would accept that he isn't trying to—"

Hughes came up behind her, and Diana urgently gestured to her to change the subject before he overheard, but Elizabeth had obviously been dying to get her concerns about the situation off her chest. She didn't notice until it was too late.

"What trouble's Caffrey causing now?" Hughes interrupted. "Sorry, Elizabeth, I couldn't help overhearing."

"Elizabeth was just saying—" Diana started with a sinking feeling, but Elizabeth had already caught on to her faux pas, and she smoothly took over the damage control.

"Hello, Reese," she said brightly. "It's nothing, just a little misunderstanding. All sorted out now. How's Clara?"

Hughes played along, making polite small talk, and Diana kept her mouth shut and her fingers crossed, but after Elizabeth had gone, Hughes eyed her shrewdly and said, "Tell Burke I want a word when he gets back."

 

 

### 10.

Neal and Peter spent an hour interviewing the staff at the gallery and examining the bathroom window that had been forced open and the charred remains of the alarm system, and then they were back on the street. "There were some nice paintings in there," said Peter. "Why would our thief want a Hatcher when he could have taken a Thayer or a Nyland? Like you said, a Hatcher isn't exactly a big score."

Neal stopped at a fruit stand and bought an apple. "Hatcher was a forger as well as an artist," he said. "She swapped out at least half a dozen high profile paintings before she was caught, and the originals were never retrieved."

Peter looked appalled. "You think she painted her originals over the grand masters?"

"No," said Neal around a mouthful of crisp, sweet Red Delicious, "but there was a rumor going around some years back that her original works contain clues to the location of her stash."

A treasure-hunter's gleam entered Peter's eye. "I want to see this stolen Hatcher."

"Relax, Peter," said Neal. "The rumor isn't true. It was started by someone who came into possession of a couple of Hatchers and was trying to offload them."

"You?" said Peter. At Neal's headshake, he guessed again. "Someone you knew. Was it Mozzie?"

Neal looked down at the apple, at the neat bite mark he'd made in its shiny red skin. "It was Kate. And it was a good strategy. It more than doubled her take on the paintings."

A strong hand squeezed his shoulder and was gone again, and Neal was grateful both for Peter's comfort and the fact that it didn't linger, that even in these trying times, Peter wouldn't take advantage of his weakness to try and reestablish their friendship. 

"And now the rumor is still out there, making any original Hatcher a target," said Peter matter-of-factly.

"Yep," said Neal, and took another bite of his apple.

 

 

### 11.

Peter leaned against a lamppost across the road from a pool hall of ill-repute, talking to Diana on the phone and holding Neal's hat. Neal was inside the pool hall, and he'd wanted to scout around inconspicuously, hence Peter's role as coat check. He came back just as Peter was ending his call. 

"All right, he's in there." Neal beckoned for his hat.

Peter tossed it to him with one hand and slid his phone into his pocket with the other, feeling pleased and alert. Their fight was dissipating in the excitement of the chase, even if it was a fairly straightforward, cut-and-dried affair. Maybe by the end of the day, he and Neal would be back to normal. "Diana said Yiakmis has outstanding warrants. Let's get him."

Neal sent him an impatient look. "He won't have the painting on him, Peter, and he probably hasn't hidden it in his place of residence either. He thinks it's going to lead him to a fortune—he's not going to just give it up. If you arrest him now, we may never recover it."

"So what do you suggest?" Peter was willing to go the distance, especially if it would earn him brownie points with Neal and give them a bit more time to work together.

Neal's face was a study in deliberation. Then he flipped his hat onto his head and his expression cleared. "I'll trick him into revealing the painting to me." When Peter sent him a skeptical look, he elaborated. "I'll tell him I need his help to run a con."

"And who am I in this scenario?" Peter thought he knew what was coming, and he wasn't disappointed.

"You're an actuary from upstate, more interested in rules and statistics than the social side of life," said Neal. "New to the city. The perfect mark. And you've recently inherited an art collection from a distant relative, including a piece that just happens to be part of the map that leads to Hatcher's stash. I'll suggest Rory and I pool our resources, find the treasure and split the take."

Peter turned the idea over in his mind. "You haven't seen this guy in eight years. What makes you think he's going to trust you? If he doesn't trust you, he's not going to flash around a stolen painting."

"He'll trust me when he knows I'm on his side," said Neal, with a smirk that bordered on obnoxious. "Leave it to me."

And so Peter spent the best part of the afternoon playing the patsy. Being conned by Neal was smooth and easy, even with the over-eager Yiakmis in the mix, and eventually Neal managed to maneuver the kid into taking them to the storage unit where he was keeping the painting along with several other stolen items. The whole time, Peter tried to convince himself that Neal's friendliness toward him was ringing hollow because of the con. It was just acting. He almost succeeded.

 

 

### 12.

It had been a long day. Neal had torn a hole in the sleeve of his suit jacket and skinned his palms while chasing Rory Yiakmis up an old fire escape at the storage facility, after Peter pulled his badge inopportunely, but they'd caught Rory in the end and retrieved the painting, as well as a few other pieces that Neal couldn't help eyeing with interest. 

"Come on," said Peter, when they finished up in booking, "I'll drive you home," and Neal was too tired to refuse.

Which turned out to be a mistake. The car was warm, and the purr of the engine lulled Neal into relaxing. He sat in the passenger seat, watching the street lights pass overhead and thinking about what to have for dinner, and then Peter ambushed him.

"Any word from Sam?" he asked casually.

Neal tensed. "Peter—"

"Look, I know you're mad at me, but we'll find him again." He sounded so damned sure of himself.

"You shouldn't have run his name," said Neal. "The moment you contacted him—"

"Yeah, he disappeared," said Peter, unapologetically. "I know."

"After someone ransacked his place."

Peter took his eyes off the road and looked at Neal steadily. "Look, I'm sorry that happened, but I did the right thing. I went to see him, to convince him the three of us could work together."

Neal huffed incredulously and focused his attention on the street outside to keep from yelling.

A couple of blocks later, Peter tried again. "You know, you used to like me keeping tabs on you. All those late-night phone calls from international numbers, the cryptic clues—"

"The cookies and cards," supplied Neal, remembering. The good old days, before the anklet and Big Brother's unrelenting scrutiny. 

"What was all that if not a bid for attention?" said Peter. "What's changed?"

Neal stared at him, dumbstruck: he couldn't possibly be that dense, but if he was being disingenuous, he was doing a masterful job of hiding it. Neal shook his head and averted his gaze again. "It's gotten old, Peter."

"Okay," said Peter, which wasn't a concession, no matter how much it sounded like one.

Its emptiness made Neal's frustration smolder. He'd enjoyed the day, working with Peter, cornering the criminal, being _useful_ , but nothing had changed. He sat straighter in his seat. "Am I a suspect in any current investigations?" 

Peter pursed his lips. "No."

"Then stop treating me like one."

"Come on, Neal," said Peter. "This isn't about a case. I'm not invading your privacy for the hell of it. I'm worried about you."

"So you admit you're invading my privacy," said Neal.

Ahead, a traffic light turned red, and Peter slowed to a halt. "That's not what I—"

"I told you to stay out of it. I'm done." Neal let himself out of the car and slammed the door after him. He dodged a taxi to get to the curb and started walking. It was only a few more blocks. He could get home on his own.

 

 

### 13.

Peter didn't need Diana to tell him Hughes wanted to see him: El had already confessed her gaffe. It wasn't her fault. Peter hadn't told her they'd been keeping the difficulties on the down-low for fear of weakening Neal's standing with the higher ups in the Bureau. Still, Diana's serious expression when she gave him the message was an unwelcome reminder, as was her obvious disappointment that the previous day's working together hadn't magically cured all of Peter and Neal's ills.

"Any word from your friend in DC?" he asked, if only to distract her.

She shook her head. "Not yet."

"Okay, well, keep me posted." Peter retreated to the kitchenette. He was going to have to do something decisive and soon. It wasn't fair to the rest of the team to let this drag on. But he couldn't force Neal to forgive him, nor could he back down on the matter of Sam. They'd reached stalemate. Perhaps the only thing to do was to clear the board and start again.

He had to give it one more try, though. Make Neal understand what was at stake. And first, he had to talk to Hughes.

He poured a cup of bad coffee—the old coffee machine was spitting mud and needed a serious going over—and went up to the mezzanine to knock on Hughes' door. "You wanted to see me."

"Come in." Hughes pushed back from his desk. Judging by his expression, this was going to be serious, so Peter closed the door and took a seat.

"What's this I hear about Caffrey being in a snit?" said Hughes.

"We had a difference of opinion," said Peter, playing it down. "I'm handling it." The last thing the situation needed was Hughes asking what the fight was about and taking it upon himself to lecture Neal about the Bureau's rights when it came to CIs on parole. That would just add fuel to the fire. 

Peter needn't have worried. It wasn't Neal who was the subject of Hughes' concern. "Be careful, Peter. I don't have to remind you how precarious your position is. He's a headstrong young man, and he can do a lot of damage to your reputation if you don't rein him in."

"I know." Peter did his best to sound in control of the situation. "Thanks, Reece."

Hughes shrugged. "You know you can bring these things to me, if you need to talk."

"I know." Peter got up, relieved to have gotten off so lightly, but Hughes stopped him with a gesture before he headed for the door.

"Peter, if there's any chance you and Caffrey won't be able to present a united front at the Best Practices Conference panel next week, I want you to cancel ASAP. Better to make excuses now than to make a laughing stock of yourself and, by extension, the rest of the office." 

Peter winced inwardly. He'd been delaying making a decision about the panel, expecting that any day now something would happen—Neal would hear from Sam or would just get tired of holding out—and they'd be back on an even keel, but Hughes was right. Peter had to face the possibility that they'd never go back. That this was the new normal. The prospect was a dead weight on his shoulders, but he was the head of the team, and he'd deal with his own reactions on his own time. "I'll talk to him."

 

* * *

 

Peter let himself into the surveillance van. They weren't expecting him, and Jones looked up in surprise, but Neal seemed sunk in the total absence of movement on the screen. "Jones, can you give us a minute," said Peter.

"Of course." Jones was obviously curious, but to his credit, he didn't ask, just grabbed his jacket and made himself scarce. Peter appreciated his discretion: given the nature of the dispute, being open about it with the team would hardly improve matters.

"Neal," said Peter. When Neal looked around, his face blank, Peter took the bull by the horns. He leaned against the counter, carefully keeping his arms by his sides rather than folding them or putting them on his hips, and said, "When is this standoff going to end?"

"You tell me." Not the most receptive answer, but he did at least move one earpiece back so they could talk. 

Peter tossed him an apple that he'd brought specially. "Peace offering." 

"Thanks." Neal turned the apple in his hand for a moment, then set it on the counter and apparently dismissed it from his mind. 

Peter sighed. "You're punishing me for caring enough to try and protect you. I know you don't believe me, but that's what it was. This isn't you, Neal. You're not this guy."

"If you really cared, if you trusted me at all, we wouldn't be in this situation." Neal's voice was steady, but his gaze snapped with the anger that was always coiled just below the surface these days, always aimed directly at Peter.

That and the harping on about trust made Peter grit his teeth. He was determined to get through this conversation without yelling. "What does that mean?"

"I asked you to keep your investigation off book."

"And I told you I couldn't." Peter gripped the counter on either side of him so hard that his fingers ached. If there were an Olympic medal for holding grudges— "I'm in no position to be running around behind the Bureau's back right now."

"Exactly."

"Look, the higher ups are watching me. If I step outside the lines now, I will be permanently reassigned. And if that happens, I don't know who'd take you on. I honestly don't. It could spell the end of our deal. That's what you're risking." Peter studied Neal's stony expression and finally gave up. It wasn't how he'd hoped it would go, but the son of a bitch was the most stubborn guy Peter had ever met. There was no getting through to him. It really was over. 

Peter fought off vertigo and a sharp sense of loss for a few dizzy seconds before he pulled himself together. He made himself say the words, which tasted of salt and bile. "So we're done."

"We're done," said Neal. Peter wasn't sure if there was a hint of regret in his tone, or if that was just wishful thinking.

Peter nodded and let that sit for a moment. Accepted it. Moved on. "All right. Then we'd better talk about how we're going to work together, because what we've got now is making everyone uncomfortable—and if you don't care about that, it's also affecting our closure rate."

That got Neal's attention. "What do you propose?"

"We're going to con the rest of the team into thinking everything's fine. You're going to put on a good face and fake it, and I'm going to treat you like I always did, and as soon as you clock out, that's it. I won't see you, you won't see me, I won't expect anything from you."

"But you'll still investigate—"

"That's not negotiable," said Peter, cutting Neal off before they started down that road again. "Do we have a deal?"

"We have a deal." Neal's expression was indecipherable.

Peter straightened and put his hands in his pockets. "And for the record, I'm presenting the conference panel alone, next week, handler to other potential handlers. I'm not risking airing our dirty laundry in front of five hundred of the Bureau's top agents."

"I wouldn't—"

"It's already decided," said Peter firmly.

Neal moved his head restlessly. "Fine."

Peter nodded. "Team briefing in the conference room after lunch. We'll show them we're mature adults who're perfectly capable of resolving our differences."

Neal's gaze flickered, but he didn't rise to the bait. He just gave Peter a flashy, insincere smile. "See you there."

 

 

### 14\. 

Mozzie was starting to worry. Neal was a mess, almost as bad as in the aftermath of Kate. He was gaunt and tired looking, sitting at the table with a neglected glass of wine at his elbow and a book open in front of him. He hadn't turned a page in over five minutes. His hair had none of its usual smug luster, and there was an apple, which apparently had some dark significance, placed in the dead center of the table. This wasn't good, and this time Mozzie didn't have Peter to help pull Neal out of it.

Mozzie had steered well clear of the combat zone up until now, not wanting to risk Neal's wrath, but maybe it was time to weigh in. He cleared his throat and took an indirect approach. "I checked with the credit card company. Sam's cancelled his card, and his billing address was a post office box. Which has also been closed."

"Now he knows people are onto him, he's not going to keep using his own name." Neal looked up. His eyes were dull. "There's been no reply to my email, and his phone is disconnected."

"If he's closed his PO box, at least you know he's still out there," said Mozzie. He sat across from Neal and steeled himself for confrontation. "You know, you hardly know Sam," he said gently. "Are you really prepared to give up your friendship with the Suit for him?"

"It's not just about Sam."

Moz raised his eyebrows and waited.

After a long moment, Neal continued. "Peter's friendship was a fraud," he said, low and pained. "Real friends put each other ahead of the rules. He knows that—he proved it on the island. He never asked about the money, how we funded our escape. He let it all slide. But now suddenly he's Dudley Do-Right, adhering to the letter of the law as if blind compliance is more important than the fact that people might get hurt."

"In order to form an immaculate member of a flock of sheep one must, above all, be a sheep," quoted Mozzie, sympathetic despite himself.

"Exactly," said Neal. "I can't let Peter set the rules in my private life, or I'll turn into a sheep too, Moz. I'll lose any illusion or semblance of freedom. I won't even—" He trailed off wretchedly.

"I know," said Mozzie. He reached across and slid Neal's wineglass closer to his hand. "But you miss him."

"What I miss doesn't exist anymore." Neal sounded sure, and Mozzie knew what it must be costing him—Neal, the personification of loyalty—to be cutting Peter out like this, so he didn't pursue it. Neal might be right. The government had had its claws in him so long, it was inevitable that their extraction would leave wounds. It had to happen sooner or later. And given time, wounds healed.

Still, in the short term, this was worse than the Kate affair. At least then, Neal had had a mystery to solve, revenge to keep him going. With Peter, there was just the daily grind of getting by. Whether Sam's return, if and when he returned, would alleviate the situation remained to be seen.

They each drank in silence. The dying embers of the day faded outside. 

Neal closed the book in front of him and looked up, his gaze raw. "How's Elizabeth? Is she okay?"

"I haven't seen her recently," said Mozzie. "We had a difference of opinion."

"Moz, you don't have to give up being friends with her because of me. You know that." Neal looked stricken.

Mozzie shrugged. "When there's a war, people take sides. It's not as easy as you'd think to be Switzerland."

Neal covered his face with his hands, ran his fingers through his hair. "I didn't mean to drag you into this."

"Neal," said Mozzie, holding his gaze, "whatever happens, I'm always going to be on your side."

That actually won him a faint smile, but before Neal could reply, Mozzie's phone rang. The display said it was El, and Mozzie went out onto the patio to answer. "Yeah?"

"Moz, I can't take this anymore," said El, her words tumbling over each other. "Peter's so miserable and—and I'm sorry about everything I said. I need your help. Please, Moz."

"To do what?" asked Mozzie cautiously. He was fully prepared to forgive and forget, but if she wanted him to lobby Neal on the Suits' behalf, she was going to be sorely disappointed. But that wasn't what she had in mind at all.

"I need," she said, her voice clear and determined. "I need you to help me steal Ellen's locket from the US Marshals."


	3. Chapter 3

### 15.

Upon arriving at Casa Suit, Mozzie refused to say a word or let El say a word until he'd done a quick sweep of the room—including Satchmo—for bugs. Then he accepted the offer of tea. "Where's the Suit?"

"He's at work, preparing for a conference panel." El touched Mozzie's arm. "Thanks for coming, Moz. I really am sorry about what I said. I'd hate to lose you as a friend."

"To err is human," said Mozzie, leaving the rest of the quote implied. "I wasn't entirely without fault." 

El put the tea accoutrements on a tray and they went to sit at the table. Through the window behind El, the Rai stone squatted in the sun, large and looming. Mozzie considered it a good omen. He took a sip of his vanilla rooibos and said, "Now, about stealing the locket. You can't be serious."

El put down her cup with a decided clink. "Ellen wanted Neal to have that locket."

"El, the marshals' office is a highly secure, nay, impregnable government fortress, which has already had a recent security breach, thanks to Ms. Mobile Thief. They'll be on full alert." He gestured eloquently to underline the hopelessness of the endeavor, but El remained visibly undeterred. It was like talking to Neal. Mozzie tried again. "All their systems will be locked down. It would be like robbing the Death Star."

"So we'll disguise ourselves as stormtroopers," said El.

Mozzie felt his grip on the situation slipping and clutched at an unfamiliar straw. "What about the Suit? Surely he could obtain it through the proper channels, if he tried."

"He's made inquiries about the evidence from Ellen's murder," said El, "but he can't ask for the locket directly without drawing attention to it."

"You know, we could just wait until the marshals release Ellen's effects," Mozzie pointed out.

El shook her head. "That could be never. As long as Ellen's murder remains unsolved, her possessions are evidence, and the marshals won't be able to solve the murder because they don't know what we know."

"That it's linked to a conspiracy that goes to the highest levels of government," said Mozzie. From his perspective, this was a manifest reason to steer well clear of the whole mess, but apparently Mrs. Suit took after her husband in her fearlessness. It was terrifying.

She nodded. "Of course, if the marshals already know that, they might refuse to release the evidence in case it's incriminating."

"Okay, who are you and what have you done with El?" Mozzie never thought he'd hear such an admission of possible institutional failure from her lips. 

"I'm serious, Moz." El looked deadly earnest. "If what Ellen said is true, they have every reason to cover it up."

"And I'm serious. Even if we're successful, when Peter finds out I helped you break into a restricted facility, he's going to kill me." Mozzie blanched at the prospect.

"I'll keep your name out of it," said El, waving that aside. "You'll have plausible deniability." She leaned forward, and the overhead light emphasized the dark circles under her eyes. "Peter and Neal need that locket. They're so caught up in pushing each other away, they've forgotten what's really important. And I have to get it for them."

"Why?" said Moz, jumping on that one weak link in her argument. "Why you?"

El stuck her chin out. "I have to fix this because I was the one who broke it. I told Peter that Sam was visiting Neal. I—"

"El, it wasn't your fault." Mozzie spread his hands on the table, willing her to believe him.

"I have to," repeated El, resolutely. She took another sip of tea and offered him a cookie. "So, you're the expert. How do we do this?"

He sighed and took off his glasses to clean them. "You're too short for a stormtrooper."

"So long as we stay well clear of the trash compactor, I'll be fine."

Mozzie shook his head. How did he always end up working with these daring, obdurate, unfathomably courageous types? It must be a flaw in his own character, some combined martyr/savior complex, that when faced with their ridiculously doomed plans, he found it impossible to walk away, and instead let himself be drawn in to the very heart of their machinations. "Let me think on it," he said resignedly. "I'll get back to you."

 

 

### 16.

"And just a reminder, I'll be out of the office all day tomorrow at the Best Practices Conference. Okay, we'll pick this up again after lunch," said Peter. He glanced around at the rest of the team, who were working their way through the huge stacks of files, and then he made an obvious point of turning to Neal and saying, "You want to grab a bite?"

"Not today, buddy." Neal flashed a grin. "Other plans."

Diana dug her fingernails into her palms and met Jones' eye. Five minutes later, she found him by the coffee cart outside. "This is so much worse," she told him. Their arrest rate had recovered, but the tension in the air was like a constant low-grade whine, like someone drilling into her sinuses. "One more fake smile, and I'm gonna kill them both."

"Set it up as a joint suicide pact, no one will ever know," said Jones. "I'll help you cover it up."

Diana took a deep cleansing breath. "I knew I could count on you. There must be something we can do."

"Short of putting one of them in a life-threatening situation, so the other has an epiphany about their true feelings—" Jones broke off at Diana's raised eyebrow and shrugged. "Hey, it works in the movies."

"If there's going to be a life-threatening situation, can it be me holding a gun to Caffrey's head?" said Diana grouchily. "Come on, let's get something to eat."

"Can't today, buddy, other plans," said Jones, in a passable imitation of Caffrey, with the same cheesy grin. 

Diana groaned loudly and swatted him on the arm. "Don't make me hurt you!"

 

 

### 17.

Running her own business meant making a lot of decisions, and having chosen a course of action, El permitted herself no qualms, but when Mozzie set a briefcase on the dining table and produced from it a Search Authorization Memorandum on official letterhead and two leather wallet IDs, even she was taken aback. She stared at the closest ID, her own picture partly obscured by a government crest. 

"We're going in as Homeland Security?" 

Moz was wearing a plain dark suit that would've been wholly unremarkable in Peter's closet, and his hands and wrists were bare of rings and bracelets. He straightened his tie. "When approaching a target that is fundamentally hierarchical in nature, one either assumes a position so far down on the totem pole that they don't notice you or a role that outranks them to the point where they don't dare look you in the eye."

He sounded as if he were quoting a text book, which made El wish she'd had a chance to study up on this stuff. Law-breaking, heists, cover identities—she was completely inexperienced, entirely reliant on him, more a hindrance than a help. "And we can't be janitors because—?"

"Only janitors with grade three security clearance have access to the evidence storage room in the basement, and then, only at night." Moz pulled a roll of papers from the briefcase and moved the Waterford vase so he could spread them out on the table. It was a set of blueprints.

El swallowed. "If we get caught—"

"We won't get caught," said Moz. He gave her a small, reassuring smile and reminded her, "Desperate times, El."

Right. He was right. They needed to get the locket. She needed to. This had been her idea, and she'd see it through. She gestured to the IDs. "Peter can never know about these."

"Trust me, _I'm_ not going to fink." Moz extracted two small, plastic figures from the briefcase—a two-inch Batman and a slightly taller Wonder Woman—and situated them by the front door on the blueprint. He began to walk her through the plan.

An hour later, they were nearly ready to go. Mozzie surveyed her with a critical eye. "Lose the earrings," he said. "And—those shoes are too frivolous."

El removed her earrings and dumped them on the sideboard next to the bottle opener. When she turned back, she realized she had to look up to meet Mozzie's eye. "Are you wearing heels?"

"Shoe lifts," he said. "Tall men are perceived as more trustworthy. It's the bane of my existence. Also, here, you'll need this." He produced a leather harness. 

It took her a few seconds to recognize it as a shoulder holster for a gun, and when she did, she shivered. "I'm not wearing a gun, Moz."

"You don't have to," said Moz. "But you do have to wear a holster. Trust me, it's subtle but it makes a difference. Also, yours has a surprise."

El took off her suit jacket and reluctantly shrugged her way into the thing, tightening the straps until it felt secure. She checked the pouch where the gun would sit if she were prepared to carry one. It had a small zipped compartment, inside which she found a locket. "What's this for?"

"We can't remove an item of evidence without replacing it," said Mozzie. "If it's found to be missing, it becomes significant. Now go, change your shoes."

With the holster under her jacket, it was almost like playing dress-ups for Halloween. El clung to that thought as she slipped off her pumps so she could run upstairs. "Give me a minute."

 

 

### 18.

Peter sat on stage in front of the roomful of agents, feeling slightly exposed. He wasn't intimidated by public speaking, but the subject matter was sensitive, given his and Neal's current armed truce, and he was acutely aware that the audience was made up of detectives, trained to spot lies and prevarication. He'd expected at least a table to hide behind, but since he was flying solo, the conference organizer and host had decided to forgo the table-and-chairs arrangement typical of panels and hold a one-on-one interview instead. 

Peter listened to his introduction with half an ear and focused his mind on the last two months, before the fight, back when he and Neal were still a team. Neal had brought him lunch most days while Peter had been assigned to the evidence lock-up. He'd brought him the water truck, too, so they could pursue David Cook, the jewel thief who'd evaded Peter for twenty years. That was the real Neal, the Neal Peter knew. That was the Neal he'd talk about today.

His reverie was interrupted by a burst of applause, and he brought his attention to Walt, the host, who turned to him, saying for the benefit of the audience, "We're sorry your CI, Neal Caffrey, couldn't make it, but perhaps this is an opportunity for us to talk more freely."

"I hope so," said Peter.

Walt smiled and lobbed his first question, a soft ball. "What would you say are the top three advantages and top three disadvantages of having a CI embedded in your unit?"

"The top advantage and the top disadvantage are the same," said Peter. "Neal's instinct isn't to go by the book." There was a murmur of amusement from the audience. Encouraged, he continued, "His first instinct is always to improvise or—well, he thinks extremely laterally. And this is obviously a disadvantage at times, because it means he's very hard to predict and we have to run to keep up, but it's also an advantage. It challenges us to think outside the box too. Not to put the rule book aside completely, but to see where there's wiggle room. 

"For example, on our second case together, we were after a dangerous murderer who was known to have a taste for the high life. Neal convinced us to throw a party full of sophisticated people and beautiful models, to lure our suspect out. We had our witness at the party—a woman who only knew the target's voice—and Neal stayed at her side, navigating the narrow line between his past lifestyle and his present situation, working for us. It worked." Peter looked out at the audience, the video camera taping the panel and said bluntly, "When you're working with these guys, you have to accept that you're each playing by a very different set of rules. You have to find the places where those rules overlap or are complementary, and start building from there. It's an ongoing process of compromise—finding ways to stay within the lines and still take advantage of his fresh perspective."

A few people were nodding along, and as Peter finished his story, there was a burst of applause.

"That's advantage and disadvantage number one," said Walt, smiling. "What are numbers two and three?"

 

 

### 19.

El pulled up outside the marshals' building and did her best to pay attention while Mozzie gave her some last pieces of advice. The holster straps felt like a hand across her shoulders, her pulse was thrumming with adrenaline and fear, and she felt strangely elated. Was this why Neal and Moz enjoyed crime so much, this rush of blood brought on by the terrifying prospect of pitting her wits against the unwitting? El didn't let herself think about failure. If she was arrested, Peter would save her. Spousal immunity, just like before. Mozzie had already indicated he had his own ways and means of evading capture. They'd be okay.

"You look excited," said Mozzie disapprovingly. "Don't. You're a government employee. If you can't be officious, try for bored."

"Got it," said El.

Mozzie twitched his shirt cuffs. "You know the plan?" 

"I know the plan," said El. She patted her hair to make sure it hadn't escaped its severe chignon and sent him a reckless smile as she opened the car door. "Let's do this."

"Bored," Mozzie called after her. "Jaded! Bureaucracy has sucked all the life out of you!"

El hid a grin, tightened her grip on her briefcase and marched into the Death Star with Mozzie on her heels. His fake signal detector started beeping like a heart monitor in a hospital.

There were two guards on the reception desk. One of them was older, with steel-rimmed glasses and matching gray hair tied back in a ponytail. She was surrounded by a half-circle of screens, presumably showing the feeds from the building's various security cameras. The other guard reminded El of the groom at the last wedding she'd organized, a young man with wispy red hair and a total inability to make a decision. El had ended up shepherding him through the entire process, feeling more and more like a big sister or even his mom. She drew on that feeling now. Pushing her confidence into mild condescension, she moved to his end of the desk, discreetly checking his name badge: Kevin Alcott. 

She hooked her sunglasses in the vee of her blouse and was about to introduce herself with a smile when Moz touched her arm and shook his head. Right. She sneered slightly instead, drew herself up to her full height and tossed the memo onto the counter in front of Alcott. "Agent Leigh Mitchell, Homeland Security Retrievals," she said, flashing her badge. "This is Agent Simmons."

"We have a situation," said Mozzie, stepping up beside her. His detector beeped. "There are a number of highly classified assets at large, and we're receiving a signal from your building that indicates one of them is stored here, contrary to Regulation 3-92B-sub-alpha."

"Classified assets," echoed Alcott. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Alien tech?"

In the corner of her eye, El saw Mozzie open his mouth. 

"Terrestrial," she said quickly. "National security assets." Alcott and Mozzie both look disappointed, but she pushed on. "We're tracking the signal using our ZT-3000. We need to ensure that the asset is retrieved and neutralized."

Alcott hummed quietly under his breath as his gaze skated down the memo. El was pretty sure the tune was Men In Black. She rolled her eyes and moved her briefcase to the other hand. 

"This seems to be in order," said Alcott finally. As Mozzie had predicted, he wasn't willing to admit that the memo was incomprehensible, jargon-laden nonsense. "Tru," he called down to the other end of the desk, "take over for a minute. I have to escort Agents Mitchell and Simmons inside."

"What's going on?" said Tru, without looking up from her monitors. Her voice was like sandpaper.

Alcott took a step toward her and hissed, "Alien tech." Then he caught El's eye and blushed. "Uh, not really. It's classified."

The blush was interesting. El was pretty sure, if she played it right, she could make him think he was attracted to her. That could be useful.

"Don't be too long," said Tru. "I'm due for a coffee break in ten."

 

* * *

 

Everything went according to plan. Mozzie's detector "indicated" they needed to go to the basement, and Alcott swiped them into the elevator and through three different security doors until they reached a white-painted reception area with double doors, a couple of hand carts and a fork lift. The doors had a keypad and a card swipe. El and Moz exchanged glances. If the blueprints were right, the evidence storage room was behind those doors.

"Sign the ledger, and I'll see if I can find the Evidence Officer," said Alcott, pointing to a log book open on the counter. 

El let Mozzie go first, watching as he scrawled something that could've been Simmons or pretty much anything else beginning with "S". He wrote the time and date, and handed the pen to El, who scribbled L. Mitchell, which was close enough to her unmarried name that it didn't even feel like a lie.

Meanwhile, Alcott had pressed a buzzer on the wall, and they stood around awkwardly waiting, to the regular beep of Mozzie's detector. Alcott shuffled closer and muttered something about aliens, but Mozzie was ruthlessly ignoring him, pretending to fine-tune the dials on the detector, so El quelled him with a stern, official glare and hoped the Evidence Officer was going to be as easy to handle as Alcott was.

Finally, the double doors opened, and a man in a marshal's uniform came through. He looked about ten feet tall, broad shouldered with a military haircut, and at the moment he entered, he seemed to epitomize all of Mozzie's dire warnings about G-men. El froze. 

Luckily Alcott stepped in, introduced them and explained their cover story. "Agents Mitchell and Simmons, this is Lewington, our Evidence Officer. He'll take care of you." He cast a last longing look at them, encompassing Mozzie's detector and El, and disappeared back the way they'd come. 

Lewington towered over them. "According to protocol, only marshals on official business can enter the evidence storage area. What was it you were after again?"

"That's classified," said El, sounding unconvincing even to her own ears. She sent Mozzie a desperate look and thought, _Help me, Obi-Wan, you're my only hope,_ but he was still absorbed in his fake detector, and she realized he was at a loss too. El was going to have to handle this herself. She turned back to Lewington and told herself that he was like a younger version of a man whose fiftieth wedding anniversary she'd organized the year before, and she knew exactly how to handle him. Event management was all about managing people. She flashed her badge and said firmly, "One of our assets is behind those doors, and we're authorized under Classified Regulation 4-78B-sub-alpha to retrieve it." 

Lewington opened his mouth, no doubt to deliver a lecture on the regulations, but El was on a roll and a minute later, he was showing them into the evidence room. El almost thought she could have sold him a fully catered champagne brunch, but she stuck to the plan. Once inside, he put his hands on his hips, as if waiting to see what they'd do next, so El said, "We've got this under control. It's _classified_ ," and hustled him out the door before he knew what hit him.

It wasn't until the door banged shut behind him that Moz switched off the detector's regular beeping and looked up. "You know, you're really talented at this. If you ever decide to change careers—"

But El was looking around the room, too dismayed to respond. It was probably an illusion brought on by adrenaline, but the aisles seemed to stretch on forever, all of them lined with towering shelves stacked with identical cardboard boxes. "There must be thousands of boxes here. How do we find Ellen's?"

"Deduction," said Moz. Now that the government officials were out of the picture, he'd come back to life. He checked the labels on the nearest three boxes. "Okay, they're marked by date. Ellen was killed on the second, plus a couple of days for processing—" He moved to the next aisle, then the next. "Somewhere around here. Look for initials, EP or KH."

"KH?" said El.

"Kathryn Hill. That was Ellen's name before she was in WITSEC." Mozzie paused by a box, sniffed and produced a switchblade, which he calmly used to break the box's seal.

"What? Why that box?" El came over to see.

Mozzie put his signal detector on a nearby shelf and removed the lid. He dug around for a second and pulled out a slightly soiled evidence bag containing a pair of dirty gardening gloves. "Ellen was gardening when they got her."

"You have a nose like a bloodhound," said El, not sure whether to be impressed or creeped out.

"The olfactory organ is amazing, especially if you eliminate dairy products from your diet." Mozzie sounded distracted. He checked the front of the box again. "This is box one of eleven. We have some work to do."

El stared into the box, all the plastic evidence bags neatly numbered and itemized, and her heart clenched. "Oh my God, Moz, what are we doing? Peter's going to kill me!"

"Relax," said Moz dryly. "I'm pretty sure I'm going to be first in line for the guillotine." He didn't sound particularly perturbed at the prospect, and El took a steadying breath and decided to follow his lead. They'd come this far: there was no point backing out now.

"Knife," she said, holding out her hand. 

The second box El opened contained framed pictures, stacked loose in the box, no evidence bags. It was obvious the locket wasn't in there, but El couldn't help flipping through the paintings anyway. She hadn't known Ellen well, but what she'd seen, she'd liked, and these boxes held all that was left of her life. It was sobering, and it made El profoundly grateful for the wedding band on her own finger.

She was about to get on with the search when an envelope taped to the back of one of the pictures caught her eye. Mozzie was opening box number five, and they were going to have to clean up this mess in a second, but curiosity got the better of El anyway. Whatever was hidden in that envelope might be a clue to the whereabouts of the evidence Ellen had gathered thirty years ago. It would be incredibly annoying to steal the locket and leave, only to find that there was more information hidden in Ellen's things. 

El unwound the string that held the envelope closed and pulled out a single photograph. It was old, the colors a little faded. A small boy wearing an oversized police cap. It could have been anyone—Ellen must have had many friends throughout her life, known many children—but the fact that it was hidden, the police cap, those bright blue eyes. El was sure this was Neal as a child. She slipped the photo into her pocket. She wasn't even sure if she was saving it for herself, for Peter or for Neal. She just knew she couldn't leave it here in this tomb of an evidence room. 

Mozzie was onto the next box. El quickly twisted the string on the envelope shut, settled the pictures back down and closed the lid, about to get started on the next box, but before she could ask for the knife, Moz made a triumphant noise. "Got it."

They swapped out the lockets, Mozzie resealed the evidence bag with a swipe of a cigarette lighter, and they packed everything back onto its shelves. Then Mozzie moved down the aisle, cutting the seals on other boxes, opening them to stir up the contents.

"What are you doing?" El frowned. The more disruption, the more they were calling attention to their break-in, and the more cases could potentially be derailed by accusations of evidence tampering. Surely they should just get out, while the going was good.

But Mozzie shook his head. "Misdirection. We don't want them to know we were targeting Ellen's belongings."

"Fine," said El, but the excitement of the heist was starting to subside. They'd succeeded in their mission. Now she wanted nothing more than to be home in her safe, suburban kitchen with a fresh pot of tea.

"We're done." Moz came over, echoing her thoughts. "Let's get out of here. Oh, wait!" He disappeared into the back reaches of the room and emerged a moment later with a mysterious device about the size of a typewriter.

El reached out to wipe away the layer of dust on its top surface. "What is that?"

"We came here looking for classified tech," explained Mozzie. "We need to leave with some."

"That's classified tech?" El raised her eyebrows. "It looks like an old stenograph."

"It could be anything," said Moz. "It doesn't matter. We just need a McGuffin."

"No, Moz," said El firmly. "No. We are not stealing random objects from the marshals."

"It's worthless, El." But Mozzie sighed and slid it onto the shelf next to his detector. "Fine. If we vanish, Lewington will say good riddance and Alcott will think we found an invisible teleporter or a time machine. Now we just need an exit strategy." 

"Can't we go out the way we came in?" 

"Never expose your cover more than you have to," said Mozzie. Apparently this was a maxim.

El shook her head tiredly. "Shouldn't the exit strategy have been part of the plan?"

"Technically, yes." Moz picked up his detector. "I've been working with Neal for too long. He tends to improvise. Okay, if you can get us past Lewington and through the next set of doors, we can exit through the garage and boost a getaway car." He caught El's gaze. "Borrow. Borrow a car."

El rolled her eyes. "Wasn't there a basement loading dock on the blueprints? Let's go that way."

"I don't think you've quite got into the spirit of this," said Moz, but he followed after her.

 

* * *

 

The big roller door to the loading dock was standing open, and there was a small cluster of people standing outside, smoking. El left the briefcase, stripped of identifying features, in a wheeled trash bin, and Mozzie produced a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered her one. "Best camouflage there is."

El put on her sunglasses and shrugged, figuring what the hell. One cigarette was the least of her sins. It tasted bitter and hot and gave her a head rush. She coughed and looked around, hoping none of the regular smokers had noticed. "Sorry," she muttered to Moz. "I haven't smoked since I was a senior in college."

Mozzie eyed her. "Based on your technique, I'm going to hazard a guess that your college experiments weren't with tobacco."

El grinned, and they started walking toward the ramp and freedom.

"Hi," said one of the other smokers as they passed, a good-looking young man who smiled at El with interest.

El waved without stopping. "Hi, I'm new. Just going to grab a coffee to go with this."

The guy nodded. "Jerry's Diner does great espresso. It's just down the block."

"Thanks, we'll check it out." El smiled. Mozzie had picked up his pace, and she hurried to catch up. "I can't believe we just did that," she said, suddenly struck by the enormity of their achievement. "We walked into the marshals' building, Moz."

They were out of view of the loading dock. Mozzie discarded his cigarette with obvious distaste. He plucked El's from her hand and flicked that away too. "More importantly, we walked out again," he said. "Come on."

 

 

### 20.

El poured four cups of coffee and whispered to Mozzie, "Are you going to tell them or shall I?"

They were in the kitchen. Peter and Neal were in the living room, sitting at opposite ends of the couch, not speaking and no doubt wondering why they'd been summoned.

"It's your husband," said Mozzie.

"It's your best friend."

"It was your idea."

"And I take full responsibility for it, but—" El's palms were sweating. "Let's tell them together, okay?"

"Deal." Mozzie brought out the expensive, hand-made, dairy-free chocolates they'd purchased at the height of their celebratory post-heist giddiness and arranged them on a plate. "After you."

With a mix of pride, defiance and apprehension, El carried the coffee tray through. She put it on the table, but she couldn't bring herself to sit down, so she stood in front of Neal and Peter, gripping her hands together as if she were about to recite a poem or burst into song, and tried to decide how to begin. She'd been mentally rehearsing this moment ever since the idea of stealing the locket first occurred to her, but all her prepared speeches deserted her now she was faced with Neal's remote politeness and Peter's steady gaze and curious eyebrows. 

Mozzie slipped the plate onto the edge of the coffee table and took his place beside her. "I'd like to start out by saying this was El's idea."

"Is anyone else getting déjà vu?" murmured Neal ironically. 

"I am not staging any kind of incriminating photos with Mozzie," said Peter. 

Mozzie spluttered, and that was enough to break the tension. Even Neal grinned. This was definitely the moment to strike. El turned to Peter and Neal. "We have Ellen's locket."

She'd known it would be a shock, but she still wasn't prepared for the electrifying effect her words would have on her audience. Neal went pale. He sat bolt upright and his gaze flew to Mozzie. "What?"

And Peter looked like he was about to explode. "How?" he asked, clipped and dangerous. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Neal and scowled. "Did you put them up to this?"

"No one put me up to it. It was my idea." El's knees had gone wobbly, so she sat on the arm of the nearest chair. "This is not just about the two of you, okay? I was the one who persuaded Ellen to help you find Neal," she reminded Peter. "She turned Collins away, but I convinced her to talk to you. She came here. She sat in this chair. And for all we know, her death may have been a direct result of that involvement. We don't know. I need to find out—for her and for me."

"I didn't know Ellen long," Mozzie chimed in, "but she was a classy lady. She deserves some posthumous dignity, and that means finding her killers."

Neither Peter nor Neal said a word, and Peter was radiating outrage.

El reached for a coffee cup and wrapped her fingers around it, not because she was thirsty, but because her hands were cold. "And okay, yes," she admitted, "it is about the two of you, too. I can't stand it anymore. You're making yourselves and everyone around you miserable. And the only way we're going to find the bad guys is if you get past this fight and work together. Really work together."

"It's not that easy," said Neal. He was still pale, but at least he was listening. Peter looked like he could barely process a word she was saying.

"It is," said El. "It has to be."

"You stole the locket," said Peter, still stuck on the technicalities.

"Retrieved it," said Mozzie. "Ellen wanted Neal to have it."

Peter wasn't appeased. "Stole it."

"Yes," said El. "We stole it." She met his gaze, willing him to understand and forgive. "Honey, the marshals can't find Ellen's killers. Only you and Neal can. Together. And the longer you wait, the colder the trail will get."

Peter looked like he was still struggling, so El figured she might as well drop the rest of her bombshells all at once. 

"For the record, I'm holding the locket hostage until you both agree to some conditions. We're going up against some powerful people, so for the duration of this case, I want a policy of full disclosure." Peter and Neal both opened their mouths to argue, but she overrode them. "As a safety precaution, so that I can sleep at night. That means before you do any investigating, you tell us all." She switched her focus from Peter to Neal. "That means no secret meetings. Because you know Peter will find out about them and read into them, and that's how we ended up in this mess in the first place. Not blaming anyone. I'm just saying."

"All right," said Peter. El couldn't tell if he was still mad, but he was willing to go along with her request. That was progress.

She leaned forward, her attention on Neal. "Do we have a deal? The locket's in a secure location, and I'm not handing it over until we're agreed."

Neal was frowning. "I need to think about it."

"Okay," said El. "That's okay. Think about it." 

"Have you looked in the locket?" he asked. "What's inside?"

"We thought you should be the one to do that," said Mozzie.

"And when the marshals come knocking on our door with a search warrant?" said Peter. "What good's the locket going to do us then?"

"We got away clean." Mozzie had kept his arms folded throughout most of the discussion, but he released them now to gesture enthusiastically to Neal. "El is extremely talented. You should have been there, man. A little training and she could—"

Neal shook his head quickly, gaze flicking to Peter, and Mozzie clammed up and folded his arms again. "You don't have to worry about the marshals," he told Peter stiffly.

"Honey, why don't you give Neal and Mozzie a ride home," suggested El, hoping that would give Peter and Neal a chance to talk, and as an added bonus, Peter could cool off and process this development before he and she had their inevitable discussion on the ethics and wisdom—or otherwise—of her course of action.

Mozzie shifted his weight. "Thanks, but I'd rather see myself out." He bowed to El. "Mrs. Suit, it was a pleasure."

"Bye, Moz," said El. She gave him a grateful smile. "Tea next week?"

Mozzie agreed and escaped, and Neal got to his feet. "I can take care of myself too."

"I'll drive you," said Peter gruffly, and he went to get his keys out of his coat pocket.

While he was gone, El gave Neal the photo she'd taken from the marshals' evidence room. "I think Ellen would have wanted you to have this." 

Neal stared at the photo for a long moment, his expression unfathomable, and then he stepped forward and put his arms around her, hugging her tightly. "Thank you, Elizabeth." 

El hugged back, and when Neal released her, she smiled up at him ruefully, an apology for the mess she'd made burning on the tip of her tongue. But she wouldn't risk this fragile ceasefire with a confession about spying just to make herself feel better, so she said, "After all this time, do you think maybe you could call me El?"

"I'm not sure what Peter would have to say about that," he said. There was a hint of the old mischief in his eyes, and El was so glad to see it there, she almost laughed.

"About what?" asked Peter, coming back into the room.

"Try it and see," El told Neal. "Goodnight, Neal."

"Goodnight, El." Neal winked at her.

Peter raised his eyebrows at the two of them and shook his head, clearly aware that some things were out of his hands.

 

 

### 21.

The struts of the Brooklyn Bridge passed overhead, and Peter was lost for words. It had only been two weeks since the fight, but he and Neal might as well be on different continents—different planets even—these days, and without the need for subterfuge, the feigned accord required by their working together, Peter didn't know where to start anymore.

Neal was like a statue in the passenger seat, but as they came off the bridge, he finally broke the silence, saying with light irony, "So did you have fun badmouthing me to all your FBI friends at the panel today? Get it all out of your system?"

"Yup," said Peter, and immediately regretted it. These days, Neal wouldn't necessarily know that was a joke.

Neal laid his forearm along the passenger's windowsill. "And meanwhile, El and Mozzie were—"

"Don't say it."

Neal obediently broke off, but it was too late: the concerns of the last hour came flooding back.

"You really think they won't get caught for it?"

"If Mozzie says they got away clean, they got away clean." Neal was staring out the window. 

Different planets. Peter needed some kind of space comms, those wrist things from Star Trek or a radio telescope transmitting primary numbers, inviting dialogue with intelligent life. He took a deep breath. "What do you need? What do you need to make this work?"

Neal's head swung around, eyes wide and startled.

"My wife robbed a government facility today," said Peter. "I'm prepared to negotiate, to prevent any further insanity."

"All right." Neal fidgeted with his jacket cuff, thinking. "I need a place, a time that's just for me. No prying eyes, no questions."

Peter's heart sank. "Any time I make that kind of concession, you abuse it."

"I won't," said Neal. "I promise." _You can't help yourself,_ thought Peter, and it must have shown on his face, because Neal added, pointedly, "You know where I am every second of every day, Peter."

"Yeah, I do."

"So give me a break. Give me space."

This was the sticking point. _Negotiate,_ Peter reminded himself. "What does that mean?"

"Friday evenings," said Neal. He shrugged slightly. "No phones, no schemes or conspiracies."

"No surveillance." Peter slowed for a red light, conscious that last time they'd been in this situation, Neal had jumped out of the car at the first opportunity. But they were actually talking now. He wouldn't run.

"Right." Neal looked across at him. "You're going to have to loosen the leash sometime, Peter. I'm not going to be wearing the anklet forever."

Peter stared straight ahead, suddenly remembering his own testimony at the commutation hearing: as long as we keep him tethered, as long as we treat him like a criminal, he'll always think that he is one.

Neal mistook his hesitation for doubt. "What do you think I'm going to do—rob the MoMA in two hours, with no preparation or equipment?"

"Oh, I wouldn't put it past you," said Peter. He rubbed his neck and got serious. "It's not about heists, Neal. It's about keeping you safe."

"I survived a lot of years before you came along." Neal sounded frustrated again. Peter had to head that off at the pass.

"I remember the death certificates," he said wryly. "Panama City, Bangalore—"

"Monterey Bay," said Neal, calmer.

"Gored by a great white shark," said Peter with relish.

There was a smile in Neal's voice now, a touch of their old banter. "Thought you might appreciate that." 

"Who doesn't love a good shark mauling?" Peter's answering humor faded. "You know, those always felt like you were tempting fate. I told myself you have to catch this guy before one of these is for real."

"So you did."

"I did."

Neal sighed softly. "And now you're stuck with me."

"We're stuck with each other," said Peter.

"Yeah." The single syllable wasn't enough to give Peter a read.

He risked a warm smile anyway, his heart on his sleeve. "It's not so bad."

"It has its moments." Neal's lips curved, and his face wore that fond expression that Peter had missed so much.

Here was the longed-for truce, fragile and full of hope. Nothing was decided, but it was a step in the right direction, the deadlock broken at last.

 

 

### 22.

Neal was sitting at his desk the next afternoon, working through some files on the Norman case, when Diana came over. She scanned the office. "Caffrey, come with me."

She looked uncharacteristically shifty, and Neal dropped his pen and trailed after her, intrigued. Peter was working on his computer and didn't notice them leave. "What's going on?" asked Neal, once they were safely out of the main office.

"There's something you need to see." Diana took him to one of the interview rooms, where Jones was doing something with a laptop. "Got it?"

"Yeah," said Jones. "All set up, good to go."

"This is unofficial and off the record," Diana told Neal, who glanced between the two of them, mystified. "Peter doesn't know. Just, for God's sake, watch it and sort yourself out."

"Okay," said Neal, more because it seemed like the right answer than out of agreement.

Diana scowled, and she and Jones left, shutting the door after them. Neal sat down at the laptop, utterly confused for about three seconds, before he worked out what he was looking at: Peter on a stage with a thin, balding man in glasses. Behind them was a screen bearing the FBI crest.

This was the video from Peter's panel on the handler/CI relationship. This was what Peter had said about Neal behind Neal's back. Did he really want to see this, to hear the warnings and ominous predictions Peter had shared with other potential handlers, based on his work with Neal? Especially now, when reconciliation was finally within reach?

Neal leaned back in his seat, putting some distance between himself and the screen, and pressed play.

"Another combined advantage/disadvantage is that he keeps me alert," said Peter. There was a swell of laughter from the audience, and Peter sat back in response. "I have to stay vigilant at all times to make sure Neal isn't trying to cut corners or break the law for the greater good."

The thin man nodded. "You've had truly impressive results in the time you've worked with Mr. Caffrey. Do you think other handler/CI teams can do as well?"

The video was a wide shot, Peter a small figure, only a few inches high, but even so, Neal could tell he had his thinking face on, deciding how best to answer the question. After a moment, he said, "Neal is an exceptional criminal. He gets on well with people, he's not violent, and he has a truly impressive range of knowledge and skills."

"It sounds like you're proud of him," said the interviewer.

"Oh, I am. It's hard not to be." Peter's hands were clasped loosely in his lap, his posture relaxed. "Plus, he is a con artist, so he can fit in in a range of different social situations, and he's invaluable for undercover work. It also means he works well in the office, and he's proven himself to be a team player. Obviously that won't be true of all CIs." He looked out at the audience. "Neal's the best. If you get lucky, you might find yourself a distant second."

The interviewer smiled and nodded. "To get back to the disadvantages—"

"Okay." Peter nodded back. "One of the disadvantages of working closely with a CI and being responsible for him is that he tends to have connections with unsavory characters from his past who can put him or the wider team in danger. This is no reflection on the CI himself, but just that the circles in which he used to move tended to bring him into contact with people who will eventually cause trouble. There was one time early in our working relationship, Neal was kidnapped by an old associate, and we had to work hard and fast to ensure his safety and bring the kidnapper to justice."

"So you have to protect your CI?" said the interviewer.

"Absolutely. And you know, sometimes those threats come from within the Bureau," said Peter. "Not everyone likes the idea of a felon walking around with an FBI consultant's badge, making good. There can be power plays, even bullying, and some people are always going to think that because Neal's a felon, he's expendable, but that's absolutely not the case. When we take these guys on, they become our responsibility on all counts: we have to protect them from the Bureau, from their own lesser instincts at times, and sometimes we have to give them space to figure stuff out for themselves. The truth is that these guys aren't in prison any more—they're on parole, and that's supposed to be a transition to self-management and autonomy. Sure, we use them to solve crimes and catch bad guys, but they use us too, and they should. It's a two-way street. It works best when there's mutual respect and—well, and when you like each other. That's important to make any partnership work."

The interviewer looked surprised. "You'd describe it as partnership?"

"It might not start out that way, but if you stick together for any length of time, then yeah. It's a partnership."

There was a burst of applause from the audience, and Peter murmured inaudibly to the interviewer, who held up his hands. "We just have a few more minutes. Are there any questions from the floor?"

 

* * *

 

Neal leaned in Peter's doorway and waited for him to notice. He was talking on the phone. "That's great, honey. Wait, you said no? So we're not retiring to a tropical island after all?" He doodled something on his blotter. Behind him, the light was starting to fade. "Well, good. It sounds like you made the right choice." A noise in the outer office made him look up, and he saw Neal. "Okay, hon," he said into the phone, "I'll be home soon. Yeah, you too." He hung up. "Major client just offered El a permanent position." 

"She turned it down?"

"Yeah. Said she prefers being her own boss." Peter's smile was wry with understanding. He knew that given the choice, Neal would do the same. But there was no choice, and this was the next best thing. Peter knew that too. "Have you made a decision?"

"I'm getting there." Neal pushed off from the doorway, belatedly realizing there was nothing he needed to say. He'd just wanted to touch base before going home for the weekend. "Goodnight, Peter."

"It's Friday night," said Peter, and Neal knew he was thinking about Neal's proposal: no mischief, no surveillance. He was meeting Neal halfway.

"Yeah." Neal's eyes stung slightly, and he blinked hard.

Peter sat back and fiddled with his pen. "What're you gonna do?"

Neal breathed a laugh. "Kind of defeating the purpose there."

"Okay." Peter smiled. "Have a good weekend, Neal."

Neal nodded and turned to go, finally sure that everything was going to be okay.

 

* * *

 

His apartment door stood open. Neal approached cautiously, wondering what was going on, which uninvited visitor he was going to have to deal with now, on his own private time. Then he heard June say, "Are you sure you wouldn't like some coffee?"

There was a steely inflection in her voice, and Neal hurried forward, through the doorway, to see her sitting at his kitchen table, addressing a man settled comfortably in one of the mismatched armchairs. The man was Sam.

"Neal, darling," said June. "Your visitor has declined to identify himself."

"June, this is Sam," said Neal. "Sam, this is my landlady, June. You can trust her."

Sam shifted in his chair. His hands were dug deep in his pockets, and Neal had a sudden intuitive flash, a conviction that those pockets held more than flesh and bone. Sam was armed. Here, in Neal's apartment, with June. In the time it took to register that, all of Neal's decisions and loyalties fell into place.

He escorted June to the door. "Thank you," he said. "I'll see you later. Oh, and I meant to tell you, that Suit I thought was irreparably damaged? I found someone who was able to mend it, good as new." 

"That's good to hear," said June, her eyes sharp with understanding. "I'll tell the maid."

When she'd gone, Neal closed the door and went to pour himself a drink, using the running water to disguise the sound of speed-dialing Peter from the phone in his pocket and Peter's faint inquiry. "Sam," said Neal, for Peter's benefit. "Your apartment was ransacked. I thought you'd gone to ground for good."

"I'm not stopping till these guys are taken down," said Sam. "It's just a question of whether or not I work alone."

"I'm glad you're here," Neal told him. "I want to work with you."

"No FBI?" said Sam.

The phone was warm in Neal's hand, broadcasting the entire conversation to Peter, but it was the right move. If Neal was going to mislead anyone, let it be the man he didn't know, the one whose trust had yet to be earned. He sat down across from Sam. "No FBI," he lied.

 

END

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Deadlocked (cover art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/596846) by [Teaotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaotter/pseuds/Teaotter)




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